


The Men The Raven Chooses

by tiny_trashcan



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bottom Gellert Grindelwald, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fae & Fairies, Gellert Grindelwald is not a bad guy, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Percival is a knight, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn With Plot, because there's not enough of that in this fandom, not a specific fairy tale just fairy tale esque, unsafe sex bc what do you expect in a medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_trashcan/pseuds/tiny_trashcan
Summary: Credence is a raven boy, one of the people said to be blessed by the fairies when they were children, for better or for worse. After Percival must leave to fight in the war, the fae that blessed Credence kills his abusive aunt, and Credence finds refuge with the infamous alchemist Gellert Grindelwald. Gel turns out not to deserve his sinister reputation, and being his apprentice turns out to be very interesting in more than one sense.AKA consensual grindelgradence with gratuitous fantasy world-building.





	1. Alkahest

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I can barely find any consensual Grindence or Grindelgradence content and because it's always fun to make pretty fantasy settings. Thanks to L (Apocynaceae on ao3) for letting me yell at her about brainstorming this fic and for being an excellent beta reader <3

The irises are in bloom again. The last time Credence saw them, he had been weeping for Percival, alone in the world and grieving, thinking he would never again be the same. He had been right, in a way. Credence had passed through the winter alone, and emerged alive on the other side. He picks a morning glory to leave at the fairy well for Percival. _If my knight lies in a distant grave,_ he whispers to the well water, _please place the flower there for me._ He leaves a single silver coin on the well’s edge, too, and does not look behind him as he walks away into the forest. One should never hesitate walking away from fairy wells.

When he steps back under the trees, he feels the air turn cooler at once, like the winter fae still breathe in the shadowy places. He still wears the iron charm Gel gave him, but he no longer fears they will take him away without it like his aunt had always warned. He smiles to feel the charm’s weight around his neck, and feels no fear, only excitement for his task. He walks through the forest with no path, ducking around branches and having his hair snagged by brambles. Whether because of his own shadows or something he has forgotten he learned, he knows he will be able to find his way back out. All he has to do is walk carefully, avoid stepping on toadstools or touching the trees with amber sap, and eventually he will find a clearing full of grass and wildflowers. There, if he waits long enough, one of the unicorns will find him.

There is a soft sound behind him, and he turns slowly to look, smiling. Today it is the small stallion with the silvery streaks in his mane, and a horn as long as Credence’s forearm. Credence stays sitting and lets the unicorn come to him. “Good morning,” he murmurs to the stallion, who pricks his ears. Credence offers a handful of barley from the kitchen, and the stallion lips it out of his open hand. The soft hairs tickle his palm. Among all the strange creatures in the forest, the unicorns are still the most beautiful Credence has ever seen. They do not look entirely like horses, he thinks, nor like deer, and all are as luminous as the full moon.

The unicorns are said to be dangerous creatures. Credence knows all about how people speak about what they imagine to be dangerous. “You are wonderful. Always so gentle,” he says to the stallion, which snuffs his pockets and leans on Credence’s shoulder. Credence is not a virgin, so common wisdom would dictate a unicorn ought to avoid him, but Gel has told him not to put too much stock in virginity. Another curl of happiness adds to his joy that morning as he imagines Gel’s deep, somber voice, explaining this to him.

 _Purity of the spirit is far more important than purity of the body, and the former is far rarer. Furthermore, what is purity of the body? The lack of touch may be only due to lack of opportunity, not simple chaste intentions,_ he would say, and has said, looking at Credence over his amber-framed spectacles. Credence well knows about the lack of gentle touch; he thinks wistfully about Percival, because he is always thinking about Percival, and thinks with less sadness about Gel. Rather than being philosophical, he thinks Percival might make a joke. _Of course, you’re a pretty forest sprite. Why would they not come to you?_ Or: _Why would unicorns care about virginity? Where do people think baby unicorns come from?_ Credence wonders if Gellert would laugh the way Credence himself always laughs at Percival’s teasing but earnest smile.

He carefully combs his fingers through the unicorn stallion’s mane, pulling out bits of dry leaves and twigs. Any time a stray hair comes loose, he drops it in his lap. When the stallion’s mane is smooth as water, he works the knots out of the tangled hairs that had come free. The unicorn grazes nearby while Credence patiently works until he has a handful of long silver hairs laid across his knees.

“May I take these for my friends?” Credence asks, even though the unicorn does not need the hairs any longer, because it is always best to be polite. The unicorn looks at him with solemn eyes and he feels a flicker of excitement as always, to be acknowledged by a different creature, wholly inhuman and alive. The stallion bows his head, resting his pearly horn just a moment on his shoulder. It feels cool and smooth where it touches his skin. A raven croaks in the depths of the woods. “Thank you,” Credence says, and bows before turning back the direction he knows leads home. It takes him several hours, and he eats the lunch he packed before he makes it back to the fairy well, the forest edge, and the road back down to the city.

The city is a riot of color and noise after the dappled shadows of the trees. Credence picks up a package of ingredients from the apothecary on the way home for Gel. The market folks recognize him, and it is a twofold recognition. Some, like the apothecary owner, greet him warmly. Others stare, as they always have since he was a young child. It no longer bothers him when their eyes linger on his complexion, too fair for a boy constantly outdoors, on his dark hair and red lips, and last of all, skeptically, on the iron charm around his neck. He is a boy the fairies marked or made (depending on how well they believed his aunt’s warnings), and he is now a boy the wizards have taken. 

Never mind that he is not a boy, but a man, and nobody has forced anything upon him for half a year; people imagine childlike qualities in others whose situations they refuse to imagine, where they choose not to believe anyone could have a different preference than their own. They would rather believe him powerless than happily different. Credence is not powerless, but that is alright. He is not afraid of their thoughts. He enjoys how they now allow him to be beautiful, even if they think he is only a pet dressed up for his master’s pleasure. He has no master at all. He does not need an alchemist’s sign to walk under archways marked with horseshoe iron. He is not a fairy, either, which is another thing people assume. He is something Else, in fact, but he would rather not frighten them, and Gel‘s reputation is quite frightening enough for both of them. 

He dodges fruit vendors and dressmakers and weavers’ apprentices, finally springing up the front steps of a tall, narrow house, with steam spiraling out a twisted chimney. A painted sign of a winged staff and two serpents hangs above the steps: the sign of an alchemist. He pulls a fraying cord to ring the front bell.

There is a tiny round pane of glass near the top of the front door. Credence sees movement behind it and waves. The front door opens wide, and from inside the house, a brown and white bird lands in the middle of the otherwise empty front hall. “Good day, Theseus,” Credence says, and steps into the house. The bird flutters out of the way and in a blink is no longer a bird but a little man, one hand on the open front door. Fiery haired and freckled, Theseus has a rather square jawline for a fae but nobody would mistake him for a human, not with those ears, nor with his full height around half of Credence’s.

“HEY BOSS!” Theseus yells down the hall at the top of his lungs. “THERE’S A RAVEN BOY ON YOUR DOORSTEP!” From the depths of the house comes a loud clatter, which almost certainly means Gel was startled and has dropped a tool down in the workshop. “For goodness’s sake,” Credence says, fighting down a laugh with a twinge of sympathy for Gel. Theseus grins devilishly and slams the front door so it rattles in its frame. “Hey Credence,” he says at normal volume.

“If you made him drop another beaker, you’re going to have to fix it, you know,” Credence says, shaking his head and working his way out of his muddy boots. “He should get used to it,” Theseus counters, still grinning. He turns back into a nightingale, trills a lovely and somehow cocky song, and flies away down the hall. Credence makes his way down the hall in stocking feet and then down the narrow back stairs to the lower level of the house. He pauses at the foot of the steps to pull on one of the many extra pairs of boots sitting there, opens the door, and slips into the workshop. 

Gellert’s workshop is Credence’s favorite part of the house. When the little furnace burns, it sets the entire space blazing with heat, and even when it has cooled, the memory of it seems to have seeped into the stones. The walls, floor, and ceiling have all been built of smooth stone, and numerous cabinets and work tables fill the space, as large as the upper floors with no walls to divide its openness. Strange substances lurk in those cabinets and brew in heavy glass beakers on those tables, steaming and gleaming and glittering brighter colors than Credence has seen even on the clothes of royalty or the petals of wildflowers. 

Despite the clean boots, Credence is never supposed to walk into the workshop without permission, in case Gel is working with a dangerous substance that day. Instead he looks at the pools of bronze lantern light and pale ignis fatuus, and Gel’s silhouette behind a haze of colorful steam. When Gel finally straightens, Credence calls to him across the workshop. “Gel? May I come in?” 

Gel turns and pushes a pair of goggles up his forehead. His light hair looks like a halo in the lantern glow, emphasizing how different he looks from anyone other human Credence has seen. “You may enter,” he replies, his deep voice carrying easily across the space between them. He watches Credence walk over to him, while Credence clutches the strap of his bag and feels very aware of his own body. Gel removes heavy leather gloves from his hands and turns towards Credence as he approaches. His eyes flash with the changing angle of the light, from dark to blue and back to shadowed again. 

“Let’s have a look at you,” he says, gesturing for Credence to stand in the light, as though they are still cautious acquaintances meeting on a street corner, and as though there were still any ongoing risks to Credence’s safety. Gel looks him over carefully as he always does, eyes pausing as always on the rune around Credence’s neck. Credence has not thought much of what he looks like, and glances down at his white shirt and mud-splattered breeches, the oversized lab boots sagging wide around his ankles. He wants to duck his head and hide his shy smile, or perhaps take Gel’s face in his hands and direct that intense attention toward his face and bask in it.

“Are you afraid I’m a different raven boy come to steal you away?” Credence asks instead with a half smile. There, he receives that attention the way he wants it, on him instead of checking him for injuries he does not have. “I think you have already made your claim in that respect,” Gel replies with a quicksilver smile. “How are you today, Credence?”

“I am well, thank you. I went to the forest,” Credence answers. “I can see that,” Gel says with another quicksilver smile at the mud on Credence's pants. The smile lingers in the corners of his eyes, and Credence continues eagerly. “More of the flowers have started blooming. It is lovely out there. One of the unicorns came to me, and I have hair from his mane. And I went to Pomona’s apothecary for rowan and adder’s fork.”

“Ah, thank you,” Gel says. “Will you shelve those please?” Credence nods. This is according to one of the rules of the workshop, that there must be no ingredients left out open or unlabeled. He washes his hands in one of the bowls of water kept aside for that purpose and continues speaking while he unloads his bag. “And I bought more chrysoprase, because I knew we were running out.” 

Gel blinks at him when he turns around. “Heavens. Did I give you enough market money for chrysoprase? I should not have, some person would rob you in a back alley.” Credence smirks and brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Nobody will rob me in a back alley, they’re too frightened of both me and you. I used some of my spending money.” Now Gel frowns while Credence takes the purchases from his bag and spreads them on an empty work table nearby. 

“Your spending money is supposed to be yours, not for my work supplies,” Gel reminds him, lettering a new paper label while Credence pours the dried adder’s fork leaves into a jar. Credence says, “I did not need it for anything, and you can pay me back.” Gel hands him the label, which he places carefully. “You ought not to lend money so readily, Credence, someone will take advantage of you.”

Credence seals the jar and takes out the rowan, to be stored in a similar manner. “But you would not,” he says. “That is beside the point,” Gel sighs. “Nevertheless, thank you, that will make my work this evening somewhat easier.” Credence murmurs an acknowledgement and takes out the chrysoprase last of all, folded in a drawstring bag in several layers of cloth. The rough slivers of green gemstone look dull in the low light, but shine an identifiable frosty green. Gel helps him transfer these to a shallow box of similar stones. They remain silent until after the transfer is complete, focusing on moving the pieces with care.

“What are you working on today?” Credence finally asks. Gel glances at his work table, picks up his work gloves, and adjusts several burner flames. “Scarcely anything of use, it seems. There’s no need for you to help here until the evening, none of the morning’s work will serve any purpose.” He checks the time on a little watch and shuffles miniature ceramic dishes around his work space. Credence looks past him at the table, careful not to get too close to the open flames.

An attempt at an alkahest steams over one burner, Gel’s technically failed yet useful twenty-seventh attempt, which Credence recognizes by its tangy, tree-sap scent, almost painful but oddly sweet. More of it boils within a distilling apparatus nearby, a row of sealed glass bulbs and tubes full of bluish liquid and trapped steam. As Credence watches, Gel opens the stopper on the far end of the distillation and drops a single strand of pure white hair down into the liquid inside. Credence knows the unicorn hair will turn that solvent milky white in time, and be distilled and diluted thrice again before being sold as a cure for summer fevers at a much lower price than is its merit. The skein of hairs he has brought today will most likely be used for this same purpose.

“Are you sure you would not like help?” Credence asks. Gel waves him away with one of his big gloved hands. “I will manage well enough. You have been extremely helpful. How early did you leave this morning?” he adds, as an afterthought. “I reached the well at sunrise,” Credence says shyly. Gel looks impressed. “That is much earlier than I would wish to be awake.”

“I wanted to leave something for Percival,” Credence explains. “Ah,” Gel says, and his expression softens further. He pulls off one glove again and reaches for Credence. Credence holds very still, hardly breathing, anticipating he does not know what, but a touch of affection, certainly. Gel’s fingers brush his hair, then gently tug. Gel slowly draws back with a little piece of bramble in his fingers, which pulls loose from Credence’s hair. “The braid is coming undone,” Gel says quietly. “Get some rest. Eat, bathe if you wish. Newt ought to be here, if you would like assistance drawing the water.”

Gel drops the bramble onto the worktop and puts his glove back on. Credence nods, nerves buzzing pleasantly from the delicate touch. He picks up his bag and heads back out of the workshop, shutting the door carefully behind him and leaving the boots at the foot of the stair. He allows himself a deep breath and a long exhale once the door is shut, and jumps when Theseus appears right in front of him with a knowing look.

“So,” Theseus drawls. Credence continues up the stairs past him. “Is Newt here today? I would like help with my hair if he is not busy.” Theseus follows him down the hall towards the kitchen and the garden door. “Yeah, but you could always ask the master for help,” Theseus suggests innocently, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I will,” Credence retorts, “but not today, he’s busy.” He hangs up his bag and Theseus continues to follow him and offer commentary. “Busy being a curmudgeon,” he says slyly. “You know what he needs.”

“Is Newt in the garden?” Credence asks, not letting Theseus ruffle him.  
“Yeah, but Gel’s in the workshop,” Theseus says.  
“Thank you, Theseus.”  
“You cause too little trouble for a raven boy. I should be concerned on your behalf!”  
“Thank you, Theseus.”

Credence escapes into the garden, glad to have an easy way to avoid Theseus’s insistence. Newt looks very much like his older brother, though a touch more willowy of build and with far more freckles. Newt loves taking care of anything alive, which includes Credence, and he happily pauses in his work with the garden turnips to help Credence. 

Newt untangles Credence's hair for him and helps draw his bath, or rather, makes Credence tell him about the beetles he’d seen in the forest while drawing Credence’s bath for him. Credence would do it himself, except refusing help from a fae is never a good idea. To be fair, Newt will just look heartbroken if you refuse help rather than playing pranks, but the help is nice and Credence and Newt are both happier that way. The bath water also stays hot far longer than should be strictly possible when one of the Scamander brothers pours it. Newt washes Credence’s hair, again at his insistence rather than Credence’s typical preference, and chatters about the family drama of the tree spirits until Credence has nearly finished bathing. At that point Newt leaves him alone with cheerful instructions to relax.

Newt shuts the door with a click and leaves Credence alone to enjoy the silence of the house. No place in the city ever falls entirely silent, but this house’s walls keep out more sound than can be entirely explained by reason. That must be thanks to the Scamander brothers, like so many strange and wonderful details about Gel’s house. Credence slides down far enough in the bathtub to lean his head back into the steaming water, cocooning himself in the particular silence of being underwater. He closes his eyes and listens to himself breathe. 

That joke Theseus had made is a joke he has been making for many months. Hey boss! There’s a raven boy on your doorstep! The first time Credence had met him, he had shouted that very same thing into the shadows of the house, while Credence had stood back from the porch, on the lowest step, drenched by the winter rain. Credence had never been to Gel’s house before that day, would not have dared address him as Gel or anything other than Master Grindelwald, and would never have gone to the alchemist’s house at all if he thought he had anywhere else to turn. Credence now breathes slowly, lets himself feel weightless in the hot water, and remembers.

Credence had not known what a raven boy was, but he could have guessed. People often assumed he was a spirit’s child, half demon or a changeling. His own aunt had been convinced he was the child of a devil, because people who hurt him found themselves plagued by strange bad luck. Gel has since told him it’s more likely his mother had made a deal with one of the Good People. You know the sort: in exchange for an unknown cost, the mother will have a wonderful child, with skin as white as snow, hair as black as a raven's wing, and lips as red as blood, sweet natured and so very beautiful. It did not do Credence much good for a long time.

(“I do not think I am sweet natured,” Credence had said upon being told this story, thinking of his aunt’s constant cruel words. Gel had placed a hand on Credence’s shoulder, as he often does, and Credence could never resist physical comfort when it was offered. “Most people are as sour as vinegar compared to you,” Gel had said quietly in his ear. “Myself included, I am sure.” “Oh,” Credence had said. “You are certainly as beautiful as the raven children of stories.” “Oh,” Credence had said again. That had been before Credence had been certain Gel wanted him: not merely appreciated and welcomed him, but desired him. Credence thinks he is certain now.)

Credence is also lucky, or rather, odd coincidences follow him. Once he lost a very important key, and just as he had been about to give up and return home to be punished for losing it, a raven had dropped it at his feet and flown away. People who hurt him have bad luck, like his aunt, who blamed him for it. People who help him have good luck. He only just learned this latter truth recently, with enough other people around to help him. Until just now, he had thought the luck only helped his sisters, protected them when they ran away, helped him take the blame for their escape. Gel says he expects the Good One who blessed Credence finally got fed up with Mary Lou, and that was what had killed her one night while everyone else was asleep. Credence had been so frightened of what he had done — what he had dreamed? — that he felt he had no choice except to seek help.

When the Good One had its final punishment, arriving and departing like a night mare, Credence had nowhere else to go from their ruined house other than the address on the card Gellert once gave him. He still has that exact card, curled and spotted from the rain. It had the alchemists’ symbol, an address, and a name, printed with curling gold ink on heavy paper, the card itself so special and fancy he was afraid to even look for directions to the destination it named, not until he was desperate. So it was he had stood in the rain on Gellert Grindelwald’s doorstep, the step of the most notorious magician in the city, and been too downtrodden to ask, _What is a raven boy?_

_A raven boy? Are you certain, Thes— ah. Credence. What’s happened to you? Would you like to come inside?_

Credence had not truly known much about alchemists, and had not much cared, for few monsters are more frightening than the ones in our own homes, who hurt us while claiming to love us. Gellert had met Credence by chance that winter and noticed him, spoken kindly to him. They sought each other out almost by accident. Gel has some of the same kind of frozen grief Credence has for Percival, a hunger for touch, for human connection. Gel looks intimidating, tall and well dressed in public, but had spoken as kindly to Credence the first time they met as he continues to do now. He had asked Theseus and Newt to help Credence into a warm bath that first evening, the first time Credence had ever bathed with anything other than buckets of water poured into a shallow wash tub. He curls his fingers and toes, feeling the way his fingertips have wrinkled from being so long underwater. He had never known before that this could happen. 

There is a special power in asking. Credence found himself soon enough not only with a place to stay for a night, but a place to stay indefinitely, with an offer to stay on with Gellert as an assistant. Being a blessed child, though now not a child at all, there are certain things Credence can do and see which normal people cannot. This turns out to be of great usefulness to an alchemist in search of strange and wondrous substances.

Night flowers turn towards Credence and bloom at high noon as he walks in the deepest shadows in the forest. Tiny birds leave offerings of seeds on his windowsill, which the mice do not take without permission. Unicorns come to him from out of the forest, and he combs out their manes and tails and weaves the hair into skeins. The imperfect alkahests dissolve unicorn hair more easily for him, into medicines that cure many ills. He can see where the stars fall to earth. He can hold a fairy fruit in his hand and know if it is ripe to sweetness without a trace of poison left. You are a miracle, Gel says when he does these sorts of things. He pays Credence for his work, and though the freedom of money is sweet, the words will always be the sweetest reward.

Credence has not precisely made it a secret he finds Gel attractive. Theseus has decided that Credence ought to seduce Gel, by some dramatic means if Theseus’s character holds true. Credence is considering doing just that, in fact. The warm bath water makes him feel relaxed and drowsy and truthful with himself. He wishes Percival were there, as he always wishes. Gel is not much like Percival, except that Credence thinks both of them are honorable men. Many people think Percival was or is an honorable man, and not many think this of Gel. All right, in that case; as far as Credence is concerned, the rest of the world does not deserve and therefore may not have either of them. He will keep them both instead, if he can.

Credence sits up in the tub, leaning his head back against the folded towel on the edge. He has had such a beautiful day so far he does not want to feel sad about Percival, so he thinks about happy things instead. Oh fierce and passionate Percival, who would have rescued Credence from his cruel family in a heartbeat if he could. If or when Percival returns, will not he be surprised to find that Credence has rescued himself? Receiving help you requested is not being rescued, so Gel did not rescue him. 

Relaxed and drowsy as he is, Credence indulges himself in a daydream about Percival, back from the distant war, boldly kissing Credence like he had the first time. Percival is the only man Credence has ever kissed, but they kissed often, letting their secret sustain them. Credence remembers Percival’s mouth on his with as much detail as he is capable of remembering. He thinks how Gel is so different from Percival, but he would not mind such a bold kiss from Gel. The heat from the bath water seeps into him. 

He wants to give such a kiss to Gel, if he is truthful. People like his aunt would surely be scandalized at the thought of being intimate with more than one person. Credence instead wonders and hopes he might convince the other two to try it, should the chance arise. A certain part of the convincing he thinks would go quite well. Both are very attractive men. The idea of them kissing each other makes a curl of heat settle in his low belly. He pictures this in slow detail in his mind as he slowly stands and climbs out of the tub, dries himself with a soft towel and makes his way to sprawl, damp-haired, on the clean sheets of his bed.

Spare time and privacy make wonderful luxuries. He touches himself gently, feeling audacious for doing this naked, for daring to remain naked any longer than necessary, much less for pleasure. But why not? Nobody will punish him. Neither will anyone enter this room without first being granted permission, a small but significant independence in which he revels. His hands are warm on his stomach, on his inner thighs. The air is warm too from the spring afternoon. He imagines Percival’s kisses straying, like their hands always had. Would Gel kiss with greater restraint? How far does Gel’s blond extend? 

Credence encircles his cock in one hand and cants his hips up into the feeling. He ghosts his other hand over his legs, his hipbones, the center of his chest. He constructs an elaborate mental image of both Percival and Gellert with their hands on him. Gel would investigate slowly and thoroughly, in the sure, firm way he handles flasks of potion, valuable and dangerous, glass heated enough to burn. Credence’s body burns in a different more pleasant way, though he likes to think no less dangerous. He wants to be treated with the same careful respect as molton gold. Gel would give that to him.

He pinches one nipple and imagines it is Percival’s teeth. Percival would put his mouth everywhere, as he once told Credence he would. Though it made him flush and hide his face at the time, Credence had always believed him. He strokes himself from tip to base with a firm hand, down and up and back until he feels like his heartbeat itself has moved to reside there. He wraps his other hand around the back of his leg and spreads himself open, bending that leg up out of the way. He had cleaned himself thoroughly, because some of what people whisper in alleys has truth to it. 

Even in a fantasy, he would finger himself rather than allowing it from one of the others. Percival has done this for him but nothing like what he’s learned to do with himself. He would make Percival watch, make both of them watch, while fingering himself open so slowly and carefully, and they would obey.

He strokes himself occasionally to stay relaxed and keep the pleasure thrumming, with his legs splayed wide open, one leg bent and the other outstretched. There is oil used to keep one’s skin smooth, another small luxury, and Credence has found it works well for smoothing open his body. He can make his body sing with pleasure, a struck bell. He pinches his nipple in time with his searching fingers. He imagines his touch is both of them, Percival kissing his chest, and Gellert’s steady hands on his cock while he opens himself. A jolt of pleasure flows down his spine, and he pinches himself again and again until precome spurts out of him. He does not want to come yet so he stops and waits, throbbing, fingers motionless inside, thrusting into the air.

He goes back just to fingering himself, letting his other hand rest on his belly, and imagining what it would look like to watch Gel do the same, to watch each other, with distance between them and the tension electric from not reaching out, not yet. He would get to see Gel without clothes, his big hands and broad shoulders and thick waist. The hair on his arms is lighter and finer than Percival's, as Credence has seen when Gel turns up his sleeves in the workshop. What about on his chest or between his legs? Gel is not afraid of anyone’s opinion, so Credence thinks Gel would let him look, and even enjoy it.

 _What would you like to do?_ Gel would say, his voice low and intimate, an encouraging hand resting on Credence’s neck and pulling him close. _What can I do for you?_

 _Watch me,_ Credence would say. _How long can you wait for me?_ He finds the electrifying place inside himself and curls his fingers over it, bracing one heel on the bed frame. He imagines Gel’s broad chest, warm under his hands, his heart quick with excitement for Credence. Credence would let Percival press behind him, stockier and with work rough palms, scratchy hair on his chest and legs against Credence’s smoother skin. Credence imagines kissing him, a slow wet dance of tongues, and placing his hands between Gel’s legs. He imagines Gel like Percival, for lack of further information, with a cock shorter and thicker than his own; he imagines as vividly as he can the soft damp skin of someone else’s head under his thumb. 

In reality, on his back in his room, Credence continues to work his fingers in and out of himself, three of them, while gently dragging the pads of his fingertips over the delicate skin behind his testicles. He weighs them, soothes them with his thumb, rolls them between his fingers and moves up to stroke his cock from base to tip, imagining the touch comes from Percival's hand. He would have his own hands on Gel, and Gel would watch Percival touch him. Would slow teasing make Gel impatient like Credence has never yet seen him in any situation? Would he thrash and buck against Credence’s hand, or would he melt under slow touches and become even more pliant, loose-limbed like how he lounges in his chair late in the evening with his arms and legs splayed wide apart? Credence cannot help but look at him when he sits like that, a big man rendered graceful in unselfconscious relaxation.

Because Gel is a big man, more heavily built and significantly taller than Credence even now that Credence stands up straight. He must be strong enough to pick Credence completely up if he wanted, and so Credence imagines asking him to stay put on his back, just for the thrill of having him obey. In this fantasy Gel is just as calm and interested in pleasing Credence as he is when Credence asks him a question about alchemy. Credence strokes the underside of his cock with his fingertips in time with ever slowing fingers inside himself. The muscles of his stomach clench and his entire body quivers in delicious protest. He will not last long now. 

His cock twitches on his belly. Precome drips out of him and still he teases, rubbing the edges of his cockhead, getting his fingers sticky, slowly writhing against the desire to thrust up and back, hard and fast. He wants to feel Gel under him, to tease Gel the way he teases himself to see how Gel moves when he falls apart. Percival would love to be at Credence’s back, his thick cock inside instead of Credence’s fingers, and Credence comes apart thinking of that, of Percival’s release blooming hot inside him and Gel’s release on his hand. 

He straightens both legs, sprawled open on the bed and smarting from the intensity of that fantasy. He’ll stand up to clean himself in a moment, so for the time being, he merely basks. It feels bittersweet to imagine Percival, who he wishes he had. On the other hand, it feels utterly delightful to imagine Gel, who he does not quite have, but who looks at him in a certain way, listens to him with a certain attentiveness, who buys Credence things that he likes just to see how Credence smiles. Gel takes time for Credence, out of how private and busy a person he is, to ask about Credence's day and teach him, and make sure he understands what he’s being taught, and encourages him to make friends and explore the city. 

All this to say Credence is fairly certain of what he wants from Gel and is fairly certain he will be able to get it. He stretches and smiles to himself, thinking of his odd, soft-spoken alchemist who had offered to help him if he ever needed anything. He has given Credence a place to stay, a new home and an apprenticeship and freedom.

Both of them are in mourning for lives they have lost and people they have lost. Theseus has limited tact, but the bird-fae has a point. Credence draws himself to his feet, and walks back to the water again to wipe his skin clean. It is about time he and Gel begin acting according not only to what they have lost, but what they have gained. Perhaps he will get something for himself with his spending money. He considers the tailors’ work he’s seen in the market, and a few particular expressions on Gel’s face when looking at Credence. With a spark of excitement, he begins to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me write faster ;D Please tell me what you liked if you leave kudos! If you're one of the three and a half people I expect to be interested in this kind of fic, come yell about it with me on tumblr @tiny-trashcan.


	2. Chrysopoeia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta reading once again by the heroic Apocynaceae (ao3). <3

“Your dress looks fantastic, honey,” says Queenie. Credence smiles gratefully at her, glad for something to listen to other than the half conversations of people around them. “Thank you,” Credence says, and thinks _Gel got it for me,_ which is neither entirely true nor entirely false. Gel did buy it for him last time they were out walking the markets together. Gel has thrice bought some pretty thing Credence admired but refused to pay for himself, afraid of behaving too extravagantly, even if he could afford it with the money he now earns. The dress is just the thing for wearing to a convocation of alchemists, which is something like a dinner party and something like a coven.

The first time Credence had attended one of these evening events, he had been shy of dressing formally, but he's no longer so limited by what he fears other people might think. Gel is so very complimentary and would not let anything go wrong. Now Credence wears a simple white dress which fits him well. His favorite part of the getup are his many necklaces, strands of white-gold crystals around his neck and shoulders, even woven into his hair (by Newt, so he really is wearing fairy jewels in that sense). They flash like crystallized firelight.

Queenie wears a lovely dress herself, sparkling pale pink. She looks like a vision, and Credence says so. She gives a tinkling laugh which reminds Credence of fae bells, and the beautiful snow women in the forest. As though plucking his thought out of the air, she begins a lighthearted retelling of an interaction with a customer convinced that the Good People of the winter had enchanted his sheep. Queenie blends right in with the bizarre assortment of fae and creatures and humans which make up the alchemists, their colleagues, and their assistants. 

Credence himself looks very much like a raven boy, which is to say unsettlingly beautiful, and he is well aware of the fact. Ordinary objects are unpredictably magical in alchemists’ houses, like door handles and matches, and Credence feels he has become enchanted by association. That effect had been precisely his goal, though he feels drained after several hours surrounded mostly by people he barely knows. He wonders how Percival would react to this, what comparisons he would be able to make between this and the royal court. 

At the thought, he feels a swell of loneliness, though surrounded by people. He does enjoy the Goldsteins’ company but he wishes Percival were there. Not thinking about Percival is like not breathing. He wants to go home, and he wants Gel to be next to him instead of in that back room. 

At these convocations, the alchemists invariably cluster in the host or hostess’s workshop as the evening grows late, where they hold serious conversations in low voices with impressively furrowed brows. Gel wears a formal cloak of heavy crimson brocade and a similarly formal and regal expression. He has the gravitas of a retired general, and all the good and bad parts of his reputation lead the other alchemists to treat him with respectful trepidation. Credence likes looking at Gel's face when he is in this mindset and is not paying attention to whether Credence is looking at him. 

Sometimes when Credence himself is straightening the rows of glass ingredient jars, or slowly drawing out the instructions to take a tincture just so, he sees Gel also looking at him. It is not precisely an experience he has ever had before, to see someone looking at you unexpectedly, and not wanting them to look away. He wishes they were alone now, at Gel’s own house where there are no knots of strangers to ignore.

He tells himself to calm down, be patient, listen to Queenie’s story. He has become tired, that is all. Someone behind him makes a comment he was not meant to hear about himself and Gel. Credence should be used to it by now, the things people say about Gel. They say he lost the love of his life - they say it made him crazy - they say he might have murdered them - they say he might be wicked - but he is brilliant all the same. Credence much prefers the words of peasants and journeymen who come to Gel’s front step for healing potions. They may be less eloquent in their compliments, but they at least have the decency to keep their speculations to themselves.

This time, Gel has apparently been giving the other senior alchemists some rather stern criticism, and the speaker feels sorry for Credence (“that poor apprentice”) being forced to rely on him. Grindelwald must have deceived him, the speaker says sympathetically. Credence wants to whirl around and yell at that person, or maybe just cry in frustration. Neither of those would be very becoming.

Queenie must see something of his thoughts on his face. “Don’t listen to them, honey, they don’t know you,” she says, just as her sister Porpentina re-emerges from the front of the house. “They speak as though I have no thoughts of my own,” Credence protests quietly. “I know,” Queenie says sympathetically. “They are wrong.”

Tina, who is one of Credence’s favorite people and an extremely practical woman, takes in this snippet of conversation and frowns at Credence. He makes an effort to sop his expression into presentability. Tina takes on the stubborn-jawed manner of a bulldog. “Right,” she says. “I am going to get him.”

“What?” Credence says, but Tina has already marched off toward the workshop in the back room. “Wait,” Credence protests, too late, and Queenie pulls him back gently from trying to stop her. “Surely she will not interrupt a roomful of alchemists in the middle of an important discussion,” Credence says helplessly, which of course she will. Little bothers Credence so much as the possibility of being a burden, and he waits uncomfortably with Queenie at his side, watching the doorway.

Within a minute, Gel sweeps out of the workshop looking somber. He parts the crowd as easily as Credence parts tall grass with his boots. Tina bobs in his wake, anxious but triumphant. Queenie curtseys when Gel reaches them, which he acknowledges with just a nod, already taking in the look on Credence’s face and possibly the way he is standing. Credence draws back his shoulders self-consciously, as he knows he still forgets to stand properly when tired and uncomfortable. 

Gel looks at him a long moment, and then removes his amber-framed spectacles. He folds them with precise movements and stows them in an inner pocket of his cloak. “Have you finished speaking with your friends?” he asks quietly. Tina hovers at his elbow, and flashes Credence an encouraging grin that reminds him exactly why Newt likes her so much. “I have,” Credence says. Gel gestures for him to follow and strides toward the front of the house. Theseus appears out of nowhere and drops Credence’s coat over his shoulders, and Credence hurries after Gel with relief.

Credence takes Gel’s offered arm when they reach the street. This part of the city has fallen silent at this hour, the strange time between late night and very early morning when the whole world has shifted away from humanity. All light comes from moon and stars and candles, the extremes of ethereal and earthly. They do not speak until they reach Gel’s house. 

“Someone has upset you,” Gel says as they walk up the front steps.  
“It was nothing new,” Credence says. “I felt tired and I overreacted.” 

Gel turns the key in the front lock, and the tiny bird shape of Theseus slips through the door ahead of them. “Why did you not come for me?” Gel asks. “I did not wish to disturb your conversation,” Credence says, allowing Theseus, who is being unusually quiet, to take his coat inside the dark front hall.

The shape that is Gel again offers Credence an arm to hold. Credence accepts and walks with him down the hall and up the back stairs. Gel’s arm feels warm through his clothes. Credence’s own arms are bare. On the landing, Gel says, “How may I convince you that your wellbeing is of constant interest to me?” Credence had not considered his tiredness in terms of whether or not Gel would care, though he cannot now think why not. 

He follows Gel into the candlelit study—Theseus has clearly gone ahead of them—and keeps his hand curled around Gel’s arm. “Perhaps I am still not used to having someone care about what I think and be able to immediately do anything about it,” Credence says slowly. Gel removes his cloak one-handed and drapes it over a chair. “Your Percival would have listened, I hope,” Gel says. 

Credence nods and leans into Gel’s warm side. “He had so little freedom to help me,” Credence says, “But yes, he would have listened. I think of him at the strangest moments. I suppose you are tired of hearing about him.”

Gel hums and lights a spare candle on the desk, again without removing his other arm from Credence’s grasp. “I will not begrudge what you wish to tell me,” he says. Credence still feels tired and thinks he ought to prepare for sleep. However, he would rather talk to Gel. He wants to exist, alone, in the same space as Gellert, while wearing the most beautiful clothes he's ever worn in his life. Perhaps Gel will help him take the beads out of his hair. He asks.

“I do not wish to delay you if you are tired,” Gel says. “I would like to continue speaking with you,” Credence replies, and Gel nods. “Excuse me while I put away my cloak.” Credence lets go of his arm so Gel can lift his cloak and the candle, and open the connecting door from the study to his personal rooms. Credence has only been in Gel’s private chambers once before and had been entirely too exhausted to examine them closely at the time. He remembers the floor to ceiling window and its massive telescope, which shines faintly in the starlight through half open curtains. 

Gel sets the candle on a stand and goes to a vague corner to put away the cloak. Credence drifts after him through the doorway. “At times I feel so many emotions at once I cannot recognize them all,” Credence says to the shadows. “They combine into something new. Like flavors. I know there are spices in the drink but I do not know what they are, it's all one.”

“You describe it well,” Gel says, still out of sight. A cabinet door clicks. “Even when I feel happiness I think of him,” Credence explains, meaning Percival. “We had not known each other long, but we fit together. I will not say we knew everything about each other, because we did not. That was the worst of it. There was never enough time. But if we had had enough time, we would have reached that point. Being with him was so easy. I've never met anyone like that before.”

Gel’s room is all in shadows and pools of moonlight with all the lamps unlit. Credence walks just inside and pauses, because the mirror is in one of the patches of light. He has never seen himself in a great mirror, only glimpsed his face in small ones at the shops. Gel’s mirror stands nearly as tall as Credence. Credence stares at himself in it. He had known the dress flattered him, but never seen his appearance so completely. He cannot decide how to feel about it. He appears beautiful; he appears like a ghost.

Gel comes close to him and brushes a comforting hand over Credence’s shoulder, a gesture he has used a hundred times. “Have you never seen yourself?” Gel asks, meeting Credence’s gaze in the mirror. “No,” Credence says. “Not like this, never. Mirrors are wealthy men's trinkets. Wealthy men and wizards,” he adds, not so melancholy he cannot tease a little. Gel’s laugh is soft and deep. “I am no wizard, nor quite wealthy, yet I will admit to being something like both of those things.” Gel pauses and again rests his hand briefly on Credence’s shoulder. “You are extremely beautiful, Credence,” he says, looking at Credence in the mirror.

Were Credence not still distracted, he might have taken that as the invitation to kiss Gel, as he has been planning for several weeks. Instead, he takes a step backward, towards Gel standing behind him, putting himself just a half step from leaning against Gel’s chest. “Meeting Percival was like looking in the mirror,” Credence says quietly. “I never knew myself before I met him and saw he was like me.”

“I have also felt this,” Gel says, almost too quietly to hear. Credence finds it oddly comforting to know they are both speaking of people that are not each other. Credence whispers, “It hurts. Does it ever go away?” Gel hesitates. His large hand is warm on Credence’s neck. There is barely enough space between them for his arm. He does not say Yes, it goes away. 

He says, “It changes. It becomes…less heavy to bear.” Credence appreciates the imperfection of the answer. It feels honest. “I am glad I am here with you,” he says. “As am I,” Gel replies.

An intimate silence spins out between them, full of the stillness of the house and the lateness of the hour. Credence still wants to cry a little bit, and he also wants to walk back through time and smack the person who had thought Gel was using him. As if he, Credence, once with nothing of his own except the raven’s gifts, does not benefit from his relationship with Gel. Anyone with simple alchemical aspirations would be glad to clean crucibles and write labels and learn distillations from this man, sinister and mysterious reputation or not. Few would expect or even seek a reassuring hand and comfortable silence, which is perhaps why Credence stands here and they do not.

Gel turns his hand to rub Credence’s neck with his thumb, and Credence jumps at something unexpected and cold brushing his skin. “Oh. Cufflinks,” Gel says, and pulls back his hand. Credence turns and steps away so Gel has more space to fiddle awkwardly with his own shirt sleeves. With some amusement, Credence wonders whether anyone else in the world knows the owlish way Gel blinks at inconvenient inanimate objects when he is tired.

“I already told Theseus I did not need anything else,” Gel mutters wryly. “Would you like help taking those off?” Credence asks brightly. “I would appreciate the assistance, yes.” Gel wrinkles his nose at his cuffs and holds out his hands in bemused resignation. Credence has to make two attempts before successfully getting the first set off correctly, because he cannot clearly see what he is doing. “Perhaps I should fetch the candle,” Gel suggests. “No, thank you,” Credence says, because he prefers the effect of the partial light, and because Gel’s fingertips currently rest on the delicate underside of one of Credence’s wrists, and he does not want to move away.

Gel slowly curls his forefinger a fraction, and uncurls it. It could have been an unconscious motion, which Credence does not even slightly believe, and it sets his skin tingling. He is vey strongly reminded why he wore this dress and his secret plan for this evening. He lets his hands linger far longer than needed to place the cufflinks into Gel’s palm. Gel slowly tucks them in his pocket without looking away from Credence.

Credence touches one of the pins holding the mesh of sparkling beads in his hair. “Will you help me with these?” he asks, keeping his voice low, not wanting to disrupt the anticipation he perceives between them. Gel touches Credence’s elbow, the suggestion of a direction, and Credence lets himself be directed. “If you will stand here, where the light is better,” he says, turning them so his own back is toward a wall, and Credence stands in a sliver of moonlight.

Gel brushes Credence’s hair back with the lightest of touches and pulls loose each pin with care. He is barely touching Credence at all, yet Credence feels he will soon go up in flames like a piece of paper left too near a lit burner. Gellert will not push him, because he rarely does that, but he is not looking away either. They could keep talking. Instead Gel removes each hair pin and the beads in silence. Credence wants Gel to help him take off the rest of his clothes, or watch him take them off himself. 

Credence has kissed Gellert once before, in a manner of speaking, or more precisely, pressed his face and mouth against Gel’s neck when they held each other tight in an embrace. That had been when Credence first showed up on his doorstep so many months ago. At that time he would never have been bold enough to initiate further skin contact, though there had been barely any skin at all, really, not compared to this. 

If he were to place his arms around Gel now, there would be far more skin on skin. Gel stands in shirtsleeves with one cuff undone, and Credence himself has bare arms, bare shoulders, bare neck except for the beads. He is bare at that delicate place at the base of his throat where his collarbones are joined. He touches the necklaces draped there and feels the extreme softness of his own skin beneath. He has always been so soft in secret places like that hollow of skin, fragile white skin over fragile white bone. He makes his decision and it is not fragile at all. Gel has not looked away from him, and his decision feels as immovable as adamant. Credence had been crying that first time he kissed Gel, barely a kiss and barely any skin. He is not crying now. 

He kisses Gel unambiguously, on the mouth. Gel looks at him in the eyes the second before, and he thinks, in that small moment, Gel saw right through to his heart and knew what he was about to do and welcomed it. His mouth welcomes Credence, too. He kisses back gently, brief closed-mouthed kisses. Credence stands close to him and slides his hands up Gel’s chest, flat palms, feeling the warmth of him, the shape of him. Gel’s hands alight at his waist. He wishes his dress had no back, so Gel could not avoid touching his skin even with that small gesture.

The sliver of air between their bodies feels warmer than the cool night air all around them. Gel pauses in their kissing and inhales deeply, his chest expanding under Credence's hands. Their faces are still so close that Credence cannot see his expression, just an impression of his face by candlelight and intimate distance. Credence licks his lips and can feel his breath on Gel’s skin, and Gel's breath on his own mouth.

"Credence," Gel says, and his voice is dark and deep like the well in the forest, and the sound of it makes Credence want to do things to him, to find out what else he can draw out of that darkness. "Yes," Credence says, as though answering a question, and Gel kisses him. He kisses with more experience than Credence, turning his head and opening his mouth so the kisses gain depth and taste. This feels different from his stolen moments with Percival, less urgent in a thoroughly enjoyable manner. Credence makes a small pleasantly surprised sound and tries to imitate what Gel does with his tongue.

In response Gel’s hands squeeze briefly at Credence's waist and he makes a quiet noise of his own, another dark low sound of appreciation. The two details combined tip Credence off a precipice he has been walking all evening and his attraction to Gel rises up to greet him in a wave of sparkling arousal. Glittering and sinuous, it coils in Credence's abdomen; he leans his weight into Gel, presses his tongue into Gel’s mouth and tries to devour him.

Gel slides one of his hands all the way up Credence’s spine into his hair. His thumb rests at the base of Credence’s skull. He directs Credence to turn his head so their mouths fit together better. Gel traces his tongue over Credence's lower lip and Credence responds with less finesse but greater eagerness. Gel opens his mouth to Credence and Credence explores, tastes him. Excitement races through his veins and he feels almost weightless. He feels he really is a fey creature, almost as though he could drink Gel’s life away if he wanted. He will not. He would give it back again.

They kiss again and again with Credence pressing himself close, pressing flush against the broad solid heat of Gel’s body. He uses his weight to hold Gel against the wall, and Gel does not resist. He can feel his body reacting and Gel’s doing the same. Credence is not sure how far his license for boldness extends, so he does not reach down Gel’s body yet. Instead he cradles Gel’s face between his hands, pulls back from the kiss, and looks at him. 

Gel has heavy lidded eyes and his mouth looks soft from being kissed. Credence steps back with his palms still on Gel’s cheeks. When he backs up far enough, his fingertips trail past the edge of Gel’s jaw and Gel’s eyes close for the briefest moment. “Credence,” he asks, eyes still half closed, “are you certain? I am not your Percival.” 

“I know,” Credence says. “You are not a replacement. I am not your Albus, either.” This earns him Gel’s quicksilver smile. “Well spoken,” Gel says. “I am thoroughly aware you are your own person.” 

He is always so gentle with Credence. The heat in Credence's belly flares pleasantly. “I am certain,” Credence says; “I am entirely certain.” He steps back further and starts to loosen the ties at the back of his dress. Gel reaches for him. Credence stops him with a direct look. “Do not touch,” Credence orders. “Watch.” Gel raises his eyebrows, glances down Credence's body, and back up it, and nods.

Credence enjoys that look, enjoys it easily as much as he had expected. He traces his hand over the shape of his waist and watches Gel’s eyes follow his touch. Credence moves his hand up over his heart, under the hanging necklaces, and down his front. The white fabric of the dress feels silky smooth, and shines like water. He stops his hand on the lower curve of his stomach and Gel takes in a long, deep breath. Gel looks back up to Credence’s eyes. Credence feels powerful; he thinks Gel would do anything he asked. He pulls at the hook and eye clasps behind his back, and he must be truly calm because he can get a hold of them without trouble. 

Credence has never been naked in front of anyone before but he does not feel nervous. Far from feeling exposed with the dress half off his shoulders, he feels only excitement, like he is able to hold Gel still with the force of his presence alone. He could hardly have more authority than if he were holding a knife to Gel’s throat. Far better, Credence needs no coercion to exert this control. He slips his shoes off his feet, slides the dress past his hips, and lets it fall to the floor, where it shines like the moonlight. 

Credence is not quite naked yet. Gel looks, blinks, and raises his dark eyes to Credence’s. “Where did those come from?” Credence wears underclothes, short britches sewn out of linen and lace, soft and fitting close to his body. He had bought the fabric secretly with money he earned, knowing the fabric was not often intended for this sort of clothing. The underclothes were somewhat impractical to take on or off, and difficult to make, but striking in appearance. He had needed to repair his own clothes at one time, and now has taken to sewing for the enjoyment of it, which is chiefly important because it means Gel would have had no way of predicting the underclothes. 

“I made them,” Credence says. He smirks and revels in the surprised and intensely hungry look on Gel’s face, and deems the little project a worthy success. Gel keeps looking at Credence's face and back to his hips and legs and, yes, his cock trapped there and obvious under the thin fabric. Credence lets Gel look. He pulls off the necklaces one by one, feeling the beads slide cool against his bare skin, noticing the soft sounds of them against each other as he drops them onto the dress on the floor.

Gel steps forward into Credence’s space, where Credence wants him. “May I have permission to touch?” he asks. Credence watches Gel’s hands with anticipation that makes his entire body feel lightning-struck. “You may,” he answers. Gel touches Credence’s lace-covered hips with the pads of his fingers. He drags his fingers up on to the bare skin of Credence’s sides and flattens his palms there. Credence feels slim and graceful like a dancer with those big hands framing him. He curves his spine invitingly and Gel slides his hands up Credence’s back. Gel looks at him as though he is celestial, like one of those once in a lifetime planetary events which are so rare and beautiful you must not look away because every moment is precious.

“What may I do with you?” Credence asks, leaning up so their mouths are only a breath away. He begins undoing the buttons at Gel’s throat. “You may do whatever you wish,” Gel replies, and now Credence reaches down his body, tugs at the laces of Gel’s pants as he closes the space to kiss him. Credence feels the shape and heat of Gel’s arousal under his working fingers. Gel curls a hand around the back of Credence’s neck and sways closer. Credence smiles into their kiss.

Credence removes most of Gel’s clothing quickly, stripping him to the waist and tracing directionless spirals into Gel’s chest with his palms. The hair on his chest and arms is silkier than Credence's, and to a lesser extent trailing down his stomach. He is as broad as he looks when clothed, thick waisted like a dock worker, though softer about the middle, and flecked with old fingerprint sized burn scars in odd places. Gel pulls back and murmurs something about the lamps and not tripping over their clothing.

Credence drops to his knees behind him to pull off Gel’s shoes and pants while Gel attempts to light the glass lamps without burning himself on the match. Credence nips the backs of his naked thighs. Gel covers the brilliantly white flames of the _ignis fatuus_ with jerky movements and tangles his free hand in Credence’s hair. Credence slithers up his body and kisses him on the neck. Gel grasps Credence's hip and slides a thumb under the ties at the front of Credence’s underclothes. “May I?”

“Get on your knees,” Credence says impulsively, wanting to see if Gel will obey him. Gel looks surprised for a moment. Credence wonders if he’s pushed too far, but Gel’s eyes darken and he goes to his knees without comment. Credence takes a deep breath. “Now you may.” Credence licks his lips, feeling a flush of heat at the back of his neck at his own audacity and from the darkness of Gel’s eyes.

Gel traces the curve of Credence's lace-covered hip with one thumb, looking up at him, and then loosens the ties, deliberately brushing Credence while he does. He pulls Credence's underclothes down his legs and off, and then he looks and looks. Credence brushes a strand of loose hair out of Gel’s face. “Put your mouth on me,” he says. Gel leans his face into Credence's touch. “Where?” he asks.

Credence takes Gel’s wrist and moves it so Gel’s fingertips trace down the center of his stomach, down and down. Gel shapes his hand around Credence’s cock and twists his grip around it. “Yes,” Credence hums. Gel flashes a grin, a razor sharp expression that is gone in a moment but lingers in the quirk of his eyebrows. There is a hint of mischief in the tilt of his head as he opens his mouth and takes Credence's cockhead on his tongue. At first he drags his tongue back and forth on the underside, letting the tip rest in his open mouth. Credence makes a sound he had forgotten he could make.

Gel’s eyes crinkle in a smile and he closes his mouth carefully around Credence and sucks, sucks and leans closer and swallows around him. Credence gasps and bucks his hips and Gel pulls back, coughing. “I’m sorry!” Credence gasps, the flood of delicious feeling at odds with the fear that he has caused harm. Gel licks his lips and blinks up at him. “Was that too much?” he asks, voice even deeper than usual.

“It felt good, but—uhhm,” Credence breaks off in the middle of his protest because Gel takes him in his mouth again. Credence is more prepared this time and holds very still, though he can barely resist rocking into Gel’s mouth when he moves his head up and down. He keeps his hands on Credence's bare hips, stroking his thumbs over the sensitive skin just inside Credence's hipbones. Credence gasps like he has just escaped drowning and pets Gel’s hair, afraid to hold on in case he makes Gel choke. Gel finally pulls off after several long, toe-curling moments. He coughs again and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. 

Credence is a little concerned by this, but Gel just laughs and comments, “I have not done this in a long time, that is all. I am out of practice.” He switches to using his hands to stroke Credence’s testicles and the base of his cock, sucking and laying openmouthed kisses on the head. Precome leaks out of him and Gel licks it up, teasing his tongue in the slit. 

“Wait, not yet,” Credence breathes, and weaves his fingers through Gel’s hair. Maybe he pulls more sharply than he intended because Gel makes a small sound. “Did I hurt you?” Credence asks. “Do that again, please,” Gel says. He places both hands on Credence’s thighs and licks once, firmly, over his slit. 

“Are you certain?” Credence asks, because he has had his own hair pulled before in another context, and not gently. It would never have occurred to him that it could be anything other than punishment, but Gel nods. 

“I enjoy it. Please,” Gel says. So Credence grips Gel’s hair, and Gel moans, closes his eyes and leans forward and moans with his mouth right at the base of Credence's cock. Credence rubs his scalp and Gel makes another deep sound, his open mouth flat over Credence's pubic bone. Credence's cock nudges his jaw. 

“Enough,” Credence says, backing up to the bed, tugging Gel’s shoulders so he follows him. Gel barely sits before Credence drags him bodily to the center of the bed. Gel balances himself inelegantly and flashes a grin when Credence scrambles on top of him. Credence shoves Gel flat on his back, and Gel laughs while Credence pulls off Gel’s underwear and straddles his knees. Gel’s cock is not as long as Credence’s, and like Percival he is uncut, skin already pulled most of the way back off the flushed head. 

“Your approval?” Gel asks. Gel is watching him look, and Credence smiles brilliantly at him. “I approve all of you I see.”  
“You should look at yourself, you look wonderful.”  
“And this after I’ve taken off my nice things?” Credence teases. “Thank you,” he adds, “so do you.”  
“If you say so, thank you,” Gel says, and settles Credence where he sits on his legs. Credence recognizes the callouses he has seen on Gel’s hands by the way they feel on his sides.

Credence slowly works him over with his hands. He touches from Gel’s thighs to his shoulders and back down, massaging his testicles and the base of his cock on every pass. He moves his hands as though learning Gel’s shape by touch while Gel strokes his waist. Credence is kept fully hard just from looking and touching, soon Gel is in a similar state, curved up and leaking on his belly. Credence feels Gel’s admiring gaze as a physical presence. Most often when Credence looks at him, Gel is already gazing at Credence’s face, and he looks awestruck by what he sees there.

Credence takes a moment to thumb over Gel’s nipples, which makes his cock twitch. Credence keeps squirming back out of reach every time Gel reaches for him to return the favor. “Come up here, please,” Gel says the second time Credence moves back. “No. I want to see you first,” Credence says. He kisses Gel’s abdomen, and then the crease of his hip. “You can see me,” Gel replies, amused, looking down his own body at Credence. 

“I want to see you finish first,” Credence says, and backs down the bed until he’s laying between Gel’s legs. He drags his hand over Gel’s lower belly and cups his palm over Gel’s testicles. Gel rolls his hips into the touch and groans, “Stars have mercy, if you insist.” 

Credence does not know how to swallow a cock and does not want to try. He can however fit the head into his mouth, so he does that, fisting around the rest of Gel with one hand. He cannot hold himself up and hold Gel’s body still, but he does not need to. Gel holds himself still rather than thrusting up into Credence’s mouth, which Credence appreciates, and now knows takes some self control. Gel’s deep breaths and the slippery noises of Credence’s own mouth sound loud and shameless. Belly down, Credence rubs against the bed sheets, seeking friction, enough to encourage his own arousal but not satisfy, not yet. 

Gel shoves a hand into Credence’s increasingly wild hair. He does not pull, just combs through it with his fingers. His fingernails scrape Credence’s scalp just enough to send tingles down his back. Still Gel does not lose control, only rocks slowly. His precome tastes very salty, which is not the most pleasant experience, but Credence has tasted worse. 

“You might want to move out of the way,” Gel sighs. Credence does not, and instead swirls his tongue on the underside until Gel finishes in his mouth. Again, he does not enjoy the taste, but he finds the experience to be thoroughly gratifying on principle. He can feel Gel’s heartbeat with his hands around Gel’s cock. Credence licks and kisses over the head until Gel pushes his shoulders to make him stop. 

“Your turn,” Gel says, stretching and arching his back. Gel has few extravagances, and yet the curve of his body and richness of his voice speak to Credence of absolute decadence. Of course, he seems to say, you also must enjoy yourself. “You want to do the same?” Credence asks anyway.

“Absolutely, you did not let me finish you before.”  
“Ask nicely,” Credence says again, as Gel has not minded his impulsive words so far. Indeed, Gel laughs warmly. “You are very forward,” he says. “So I am,” Credence says imperiously. “You know what they say about us?” Gel raises a single eyebrow, which Credence has never been able to do. “Other people say any number of things,” he says. “Why?”

“They say you have some power over me, as if you yourself are not affected.” Gel frowns deeply and opens his mouth to protest some aspect of this or other. Credence puts his fingers over Gel’s lips to shush him. “Let me affect you,” Credence says instead. “Let me do this.” 

Gel’s expression smooths back to the gentleness Credence so enjoys seeing on his face. Credence’s hand is still over his mouth, so Gel kisses his fingers. He pauses that way, and turns his head to speak. “Credence,” he says, “Will you please let me take you in my mouth, and ride you?”

“Oh!” Credence feels too pleased to be embarrassed at the flush this brings to his face. “Have I asked nicely enough?” Gel says, with a thoroughly mischievous false innocence. Credence dives at him and kisses him over and over until they are both breathless, and rolls them over so Gel lies draped on top of him, and Gel laughs at him, not in an unkind way. 

“Yes, yes,” Credence says, squirming up the bed for Gel to reach him easily. He keeps repeating encouragements until Gel steals his words away and all he can do is breathe. Gel licks Credence's slit over and over until he comes hard enough it sends shocks of pleasure down his legs. Gel licks and swallows all of the spend from Credence’s skin and hums contentedly against his hip. “I would like this inside me,” Gel says darkly, nuzzling the base of Credence’s softening cock. Credence twitches at that, still buzzing with aftershocks and from Gel’s warm mouth right next to him. “I would like that as well. Now? Tonight I mean?”

“Yes, please. I have oil we can use.” Gel rolls off the bed and Credence stretches out on his back, feeling wonderfully untethered. Gel barely needs any time to locate what he’s looking for in a cabinet next to the bed. He soon climbs back over next to Credence, leaving a small bottle on the cabinet. He’s already put some of the oil in his hand, a bathing oil Credence thinks based on its faintly sweet smell. Credence reaches out an arm for him. 

Gel smiles softly and lies on his side right next to Credence, so his face is by Credence's ribs, his stomach touching Credence's hip. He bends one knee up to drape over Credence's lower legs and puts his oil-slick hand around behind himself. Credence wraps his arm around Gel’s back and cradles Gel’s body against his side, and reaches a hand down to steady Gel’s bent knee. Gel kisses his ribs and shifts his hips against Credence's thigh. 

Credence lets himself float in a glow of satisfaction. He feels pleasantly like his bones have melted into something liquid and golden like the concoctions in Gel’s workshop. Gel keeps his lips on Credence’s skin, one hand curled up under Credence's shoulder blade. That position seems like it would be uncomfortable before long, but Gel does not move except to occasionally rub his naked body against the long line of Credence's side. 

The room is cool and where they touch is all warmth. The _ignis fatuus_ lamp casts diffuse but brilliant light over them. If not for the warmth of Gel’s body, his weight and the smell of his skin, Credence might think he was dreaming. If so, this dream must be the most sensual he can remember. The house’s silence is broken only by the quiet sounds of their breathing and of Gel’s fingers moving, skin sliding on skin. 

Eventually Gel sits upright, clambering to balance over Credence's thigh, one knee on either side, holding himself steady with a hand on Credence's chest. His long hair has completely come loose from how he usually ties it back. Credence pulls him down for a slow kiss and tastes a hint of his own bitterness on Gel’s tongue. Credence sits up, still kissing him, and steers Gel into his lap, chest to chest. 

Credence places one hand in the small of Gel’s back and takes hold of both of their cocks in his other hand. He finds himself more sensitive than he expected, and moves his fist only very gently. Gel has not recovered enough to harden yet, but he makes low encouraging sounds in the back of his throat. “How does this feel?” Credence asks. “It feels good,” Gel says against his mouth. Gel sways forward and back against his own fingers. Credence splays his hand flat at the base of Gel’s spine, admiring the feel of Gel moving against him.

He can tell from Gel’s posture when Gel touches that place, the place inside that Credence also has which when touched feels like starbursts being set off. He leans his head on Credence’s shoulder. “Let me see,” Credence says, soothing his hands over Gel’s back. “Please, I want to see you.”

Gel pulls his fingers out of himself, shuffles around on the bed on hands and knees, and turns his backside for Credence to watch. Credence shuffles after him, tracing his palms up and down the backs of Gel’s thighs. Gel snags the bottle of oil and pours a little more on his hand before slipping his fingers, four fingers, back into himself. Credence makes an unthinking sound of surprise — four already — and feels a curl of renewed heat in his gut. Gel’s answering chuckle prompts Credence to ask, “I thought you had not done this?”

“This,” Gel repeats. He presses his fingers deeper inside himself and rolls his hips just barely. “This I have done recently.” Credence does not want to stop touching him, nor stop looking. He too has done this to himself, and seen the faces Percival made while touching himself similarly, but never seen fingers entering flesh. He says, “You do this to yourself? Often?” Gel stretches his back and twists his fingers in a way that makes his movements hitch. “Nothing like the size of you,” he says languidly. “May I do that?” Credence asks, and Gel nods, dropping his hand.

Credence takes over stretching him, which feels both like and unlike stretching himself. He finds himself moving his fingers slower and more cautiously than he would with his own body. He pours probably more oil than necessary onto his hands. He rubs some of the extra over Gel’s testicles and the soft skin behind them. “What is this skin called?” he asks, sliding one finger over the place, the fingers of his other hand pressing deeper in constant circles. “Is there a name for it?”

Gel has some difficulty collecting his answer, twisting under Credence’s hands. “I—hah—I do not remember if—Vesalius may have given a term, but I—“ Credence kisses the corner of his mouth; Gel gives up talking and turns his head to return the kiss instead. Gel kisses with a good deal less precision and a good deal more tongue when Credence has his fingers stroking inside him. 

When Credence finally slides himself inside, he has to stay still a long moment. Gel does not feel overly tight, but his insides are liquid heat compared to the cool air. It is fortunate that Credence enjoys denying himself, or he thinks he would not be able to hardly accomplish anything before reaching completion. Gel moves under him, and his body moves around Credence’s cock. Credence pulls back, and thrusts in, scarcely in control of the rhythm within moments. Gel tilts his head back and arches in time with him, making his thrusts harder and deeper. 

He clings to Gel’s hips, either controlling or clinging for sanity, he is not sure which at this point. Being on his knees feels too distant, so he drapes himself over Gel’s back, doing his best to support his own weight. Gel’s movements never become harsh but definitely gain tension, and he has more stutters in his movements now. “Ah, faster,” Gel says unevenly. “Say please,” Credence orders, though he scarcely sounds authoritative when out of breath. Gel humors him anyway and breathes, “Faster, please!”

“Could you lay down?”  
“If you stop a moment.”

Credence pulls back so he’s no longer on top of Gel, who stretches out on his belly, grips the sheets with both hands, and unhesitatingly grinds into the bed, legs still apart. Credence presses back in and rolls them sideways while still connected so he can pull Gel close to his chest. Gel thrusts back without coordination and spreads his legs, threads his arm under the crook of his knee and holds himself spread open for Credence. 

This way their legs are more tangled and Credence has to brush Gel’s hair out of his own face more than once, but he has much better control of the way their bodies meet. Credence can thrust harder and more quickly, and the angle must be better, because Gel jolts and makes a small sound with nearly every stroke. Credence has never heard a person make that sound, ever, and it seems to be a good thing. 

Gel twists his free hand at an awkward angle to reach for his cock, and gladly yields when Credence takes over. Gel strokes his hand encouragingly over Credence’s forearm instead while Credence moves his hand over Gel’s cock in time with their hips. Credence feels like the miniature magnesium firework they once made in the workshop, which sent out wave after wave of blinding white sparks that seemed to go on forever. 

Credence holds Gel tight to his chest, kissing his shoulder sloppily, dragging his mouth back and forth to taste his skin. Credence jerks Gel in time with his thrusts until Gel moans, “Faster.” Credence does go faster and Gel sounds awful and wonderful, thoroughly out of control. Credence is used to keeping himself silent, and listens to their harsh breathing with a kind of exhilaration.

Gel finishes first, one last low sound shuddering out of him while his hot release covers Credence’s hand. Credence is forced to stop moving from how hard Gel tightens up around him, and it nearly tips him over the edge. He jerks his hand over Gel’s cock so the skin goes up and down over the edges of the head, and Gel lets him go on a long moment before slowing Credence’s hand with his own. 

He relaxes and Credence pulls out, feeling for some reason that’s what he ought to do. He can barely think and is trying to figure out how to touch himself in the tangle of their arms and legs, and Gel luckily has a bit more logic left. “Here,” he says breathlessly, straightening his legs and reaching behind himself and between them. He grasps Credence’s cock and arranges them so Credence can thrust between Gel’s thighs. Gel is clearly very sensitive and shudders when Credence brings himself to completion there, spurting on Gel and the bed sheets. 

The next minutes feel pleasantly empty and mindless, like the halo of light after the magnesium firework which stayed imprinted behind Credence’s eyelids. Gel’s hair is sticking to Credence’s face again and he could not possibly care less. They remain pressed flush together, Gel’s back to Credence’s front, with Credence’s arms wrapped around Gel’s chest. Gel reaches back with the hand he had been using to hold his own knee and rests it on Credence’s thigh. Within Credence’s embrace, his ribs expand in a faint sigh.

“…is riding where I would lie on my back?”  
“Mmm. Yes.”  
“That was not what you asked for, then, after I made you ask so politely.”  
“Not precisely, no, but I am quite happy with what I received.”

Eventually, when the air begins to feel almost cold on their cooling skin, Gel rolls away from Credence and climbs out of the bed. “I will need to bathe before we work tomorrow,” he says, half to himself, and walks off to one of the half-lit corners of the room. Credence sits up as well and notices that his hands are still sticky. “Will we be working with chrysopoeia tomorrow?” Credence asks. “And have you a cleaning cloth I may use?”

“I do,” Gel answers, already pouring water from a pitcher onto a cloth he uses to clean himself. He leaves the first and rummages for a second cloth for Credence. “I have not decided where I think the error lies in the previous chrysopoeia method,” he comments while he searches. “It will soon be too near summer to use the furnace, though I have wondered whether the season itself might not affect the process.” 

“The cusp of summer for the birth of gold?” Credence suggests. “Precisely,” Gel says. Credence gets up long enough to pull off the soiled top layer of the bedding with his cleaner hand. He stretches out carefully on his back, trying not to touch anything with his sticky hand.

Gel puts out the _ignis fatuus_ lamp before returning to the bed and offering Credence the dampened washcloth. Credence cleans his lower body with it first, wiping away spend and sweat. “I ought to thank that Goldstein apprentice for drawing my attention this evening,” Gel muses aloud. “Tina,” Credence says. “Yes, she would love that, if you thanked her. I should as well, she is a good friend. She does not always respect tradition and authority, but I know she would appreciate the approval. She might be a bit terrified of you as well, so it would be nice to say something.”

“Terrified of me?” Gel says, and Credence nearly laughs at how puzzled he looks. “All the apprentices are terrified of you,” he explains. “They find you frightening.” Gel continues to look puzzled, and Credence can appreciate how amusing it is that anyone would find this man intimidating, who currently stands unclothed with his blond and white hair in disarray. “I understand my reputation among the market vendors, but frightening? To the apprentices? I have scarcely spoken two words to any of them.”

Credence finishes wiping his hands clean with the washcloth, and Gel vanishes back out of sight to put it out of the way. Credence explains, “I know you are not trying to be scary. You are yourself, and they do not know you, and I do. You are not frightening at all. So I find it entertaining when alchemists even older than you scramble out of your way like chickens.”

Gel snuffs out the candle and crawls back into bed, lining himself up as he was before so Credence can drape one arm around his middle and lie close against him. “Even older than me, what’s that?” Gel says, too mildly to be truly irritated. 

“Gel, really, neither of us thinks you are anywhere near my age.” Gel must be twice Credence’s age, truthfully, not that Credence cares enough to ask. He has spent enough of his life already concerned about what other people think is typical and appropriate. Gel yawns, “Take care who you make fun of, I can kick you out of this bed.” Contrary to his words, he shows no indication of moving. “Grey hair makes you look distinguished,” Credence murmurs, nuzzling the back of Gel’s neck.

“Ah yes, distinguished,” Gel mutters sardonically, “like a classic work of literature that’s extremely dull to read.” He settles himself against Credence’s body. Credence feels around behind them and pulls the corner of a sheet over both of them. “You like confusing old books,” Credence says. “Exactly,” Gel mutters. “I like you,” Credence adds around a yawn. “Capital,” Gel replies faintly. “Saves me the trouble of kicking you out.” He sounds half asleep, and again, it is obvious he has no intention of kicking Credence out of anywhere. 

“Let me stay,” Credence says softly. He almost thinks Gel has fallen asleep before he hears the faint reply: “Stay as long as you like.” When Credence sleeps that night, he dreams of Gel speaking to him so many months ago, always with gentle hands, as gentle as on this night. 

_Now you know the conditions of requesting aid from this house. Do you still wish to stay here?_

Credence dreams much of the memory accurately, though in reality he had been exhausted and in the dream feels only content. _I know of the wickedness of human hearts. I do not believe you are a wicked man. Even if I shall not be safe, though I think I shall, I prefer to choose this danger and get some kindness out of it. You have only ever been kind to me. Will you let me stay?_

And unlike in the past, but like the present, he dreams of Gel leaning forward, taking his face in his hands and kissing him as he says: _Stay as long as you like._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guys make some progress, yay! Sometimes stripping is a power move, and from this point on Gel will probably have to add a new lab safety rule about no kissing in the alchemy workshop because it becomes a fire hazard. 
> 
> Coming up next, Percival isn't dead, as you might have guessed from the tags, and further developments will ensue, as usual with Credence in charge. Chapter lengths are out of control lol.


	3. Trimegistus

Late in the afternoon, as autumn creates gold out of the green of the trees, Credence finds himself in one of his favorite places, at Jacob’s bakery with his friends.

Business slows in the fading of the day, so Jacob has time to sit down with them. Jacob is Queenie’s sweetheart. They look so entirely different from each other that they remind Credence of an illustration in Gel’s manuscripts. Sitting together, they look like the alchemical marriage of the sun and the moon, she glowing as always, he like a focus for her light. Most people are striking enough to be alchemical illustrations when they are extremely happy.

Credence has been discussing a technical problem with Tina, who like Credence really ought to be getting back to her master’s workshop soon. Tina leans nearly out of her chair with eagerness, struggling to explain their work without too much detail. Her master is secretive about her work, as many alchemists are, jealous of their own success. Gel on the other hand could not care less whether anyone tries his methods, so Credence has an easier time giving explanations. 

“Our difficulty at the moment,” Credence is saying, “is in how there may be three great elements and four stages in the Magnum Opus, but no interpretations agree on where mercury is placed in the resulting twelve steps. Is mercury needed at the beginning and the end, or the end only? Is it used asymmetrically in the second and last steps?”

“And mercury is the very devil to work with as well,” Tina says. “It so easily becomes a danger,” Credence agrees. He sighs, “I have begun to wonder if the ‘thrice-great Mercury’ might not be a description of the element at all.” Tina’s expression lights up even further and she gestures with the pastry in her hand. “Thrice-great Mercury? Are you working from the Emerald Tablet?”

Credence nods. “Yes, reading that text twists my thoughts every which way. I cannot make hardly anything of it.”  
“What translation do you use?”  
“Gel likes to work from the originals. I cannot read Latin yet but he has made his own translations.” 

Tina widens her eyes and Credence finishes eating his own pastry. She says, “Translations. As in more than one?” Credence laughs ruefully. “More than one,” he confirms. “Save me, Tina. There are so many. He could publish the Grindelwald Translation of the Hermetica if he wanted to claim a corpus of work.”

“The Grindelwald Translation of the Hermetica,” Tina repeats, awestruck. “You are truly a delight, Tina,” Credence laughs. “He likes you, you know. He kept notes on your presentation about the distillation of salts from the last convocation.”

“Did he?” she squeaks, face glowing with excitement, and Queenie beams proudly at her; they look especially like sisters in that moment. Credence says, “I expect he would let you look through the library if you wanted. Would you like me to ask? Or you could walk back with me and ask him yourself?”

“Oh no, I could not, I really must get back,” Tina says, and adds hastily, “but I will! Next time. I truly will.” She gathers the last of her things and hesitates yet again while standing by their table. “Credence, about the thrice-great. If it’s not a description of the elements, what is it a description of? Surely not a mere name.” The cryptic text of the Emerald Tablet is sometimes said to simply name its author at the ending, but most alchemists think otherwise.

“Well, perhaps a name,” Credence concedes, “but you know about the significance of names. I think it may be a reference to the three persons of God, about the spiritual rather than the bodily reality. That is, nothing to do with the physical elements. Perhaps there need to be three alchemists handling each element, or an alliance of three people in some other manner. I do not know.”

Tina frowns. “Three people. I never would have thought about that. But the workshop itself is an extension of the equipment,” she says solemnly, and Credence nods. Tina chews her lip thoughtfully and then straightens. “Tell me more of what you think next time, alright?” 

Credence nods and also stands. “I will. Thank you for the rolls, Jacob.”  
“Sure thing,” Jacob says easily, pushing himself to his feet and dusting flour off his knees. “Hey Credence, before you go,” Jacob adds, “I just about forgot. Did you have some new customers today?”

“No?” Credence says questioningly.  
“There was a fellow looking for you this morning. Looked like a knight or something. He was asking about your old place.”

Credence blinks and stills, a hand on the back of his chair. “About the old Barebone house,” he repeats cautiously. Jacob nods and keeps talking, and Credence can almost picture it in his mind. A man, young man, very polite, standing in the burnt husk of the place Credence once lived, asking passersby about Credence, by name. The terrible household of the Barebones, the place the Good One had destroyed for Credence, remains empty. Nobody has dared to clear it out and rebuild.

“Serious looking guy,” Jacob is saying. “Someone sent him around here about it and I told him to ask at Master Grindelwald’s house. He said he knows you.” Credence feels frozen, suddenly still and fragile as winter ice. “You okay honey?” Queenie asks, concerned. Credence does not look at her.

“Did he tell you his name?” Credence asks. His own voice sounds far away.

“Oh yeah, gosh, let me think. Didn’t figure it would do any harm, your master is kinda scary even if the guy tries to cause trouble.” Jacob sounds more concerned as he speaks, and Lord only knows what Credence’s face looks like. His heartbeat rises in his throat. Queenie says something else that sounds extremely worried. “His name Jacob, please,” Credence repeats, pushing the chair in carefully.

“Oh gosh. I mean, how many knights can a guy know?”  
“Was it Percival?”

There is recognition in Jacob’s face, and Credence is already turning before Jacob can finish answering yes, that sounds right, Percival. “I have to go,” Credence says, not pausing his movements to speak, his friends’ concerned faces a blur. He flies up the street, dodging around people, running the route home on pure instinct and half blinded by tears. Percival, Percival the knight, Percival’s alive, never answered his letters but he’s here in the city looking for Credence by name and he’s alive, alive, alive. His racing heart is an unending repetition of Percival’s name. 

No figure stands waiting on the narrow porch, but Credence needs to be at home, has to wait there, has to know if Percival will come for him. The front door of Gel’s house swings open before he reaches it and has already slammed shut behind him when Theseus materializes in the front hall, bristling with alarm. Credence does not stop; he will have to apologize to Theseus later. “Gellert!” Credence screams into the house. He is crying properly now, rushing haphazardly into the kitchen where rare house guests are invited to sit. Finding it empty of Percival, he collapses into one of the chairs to sob. 

Credence had expected never to see him again, but Percival is alive, and in the city at this very moment. The first real hope of seeing Percival after all this time brings feelings of joy and grief and pain welling up until Credence chokes on them. He buries his face in his arms on the table. 

He has never enjoyed people seeing him cry. It seems like every important event in his life of late involves himself becoming overwhelmed and crying in front of Gel. Because Gel is there, come into the kitchen from the workshop no doubt, smelling like sulfur and honey and ashes and asking with controlled urgency if Credence is injured. Credence clings to him, sobbing wordlessly and shaking his head no. Gel kneels on the floor and holds him and lets him cry until he cannot cry any longer. He weeps as though he is mourning Percival’s death in reverse.

“Percival is alive,” he finally explains, once his voice has returned to him. “I am not even sure I believe it. I do not know why I am crying so much, I am so happy.” 

Gel delicately strokes his thumbs under Credence’s tear-swollen eyes. “I suspect you are crying because you thought he died, and he is alive,” Gel pronounces. His own eyes are bright with sympathetic tears. He understands, really understands, because he too has lost someone dear, and Credence loves him so much in that moment he would weep again if he had any tears left. He dives forward and clings to him instead. 

“I want you to meet him if it is true. If he comes here,” Credence whispers to Gel’s shoulder.  
Gel keeps still and careful under Credence’s grasping hands. “If you want that,” he says, “then I shall.”

Credence does not leave the house for a night and a day. He barely sleeps, so anxious is he from the possibilities and not-knowing. He is so distracted Gel tells him not to work in the workshop because he could hurt himself. Credence apologizes for his restlessness and offers to sleep in his own bed, as he sometimes does when he rises early and Gel works late. Gel will not hear of it. 

Whenever anyone knocks on the front door, Theseus answers, as usual. Credence stays in the kitchen every time so as not to make a scene. Nevertheless, when the caller is finally Percival, he knows. Credence knows from the low burr of the man’s voice, knows the tread of his steps in the hall, and he has already risen to his feet by the time a suspicious-eyed Theseus ushers Percival through the kitchen door. Credence thought he had finished weeping, but perhaps not.

“Credence,” Percival says. He looks older and tired as though far longer than a year has passed. The clothes beneath his mail are road-worn and patched. The sheath of his sword is nicked and his scuffed boots are covered in dust. He looks like the most wonderful thing Credence has ever seen.

“You’re alive,” Credence whispers. Percival’s expression brims with emotion. He looks every bit as affected by the reunion as Credence. He keeps a respectful distance, because even in a crisis Percival maintains his propriety, and because there is a year of questions yet between them. 

“Did you get any of my letters?” Percival asks. Credence feels a flood of relief. “You did write to me,” he says, and the look on Percival’s face is confirmation. “I was afraid of that,” he says softly. “Did any of them make it?”

The tragedy written in his face is a mirror to how Credence has felt every day apart from him. He says to Percival, “I have not known whether you lived or died since December last.”

Percival sucks in a breath. He makes a gesture as though to reach for Credence, but restrains himself. “My God. I am so sorry. You must have thought I abandoned you.” He clenches his fists and his face contorts, and Credence cannot allow him to think this even for a moment.

“No! Never,” Credence insists, so vehemently Percival looks astonished. Credence’s voice cracks with emotion. “I, I left flowers at the well for you. I asked the Good People to leave flowers at your grave. Since I did not know where—” 

“Credence,” Percival says, stricken, and Credence reaches for him, and Percival finally steps into the circle of his arms. They hold each other so tightly that the metal buckles of Percival’s armor bite into Credence’s stomach and hands. Percival turns his face toward the hollow of Credence’s neck. Percival’s face is scratchy from at least a month of untrimmed beard. Credence remembers that he is taller than Percival, and has never before been around Percival with the correct posture to prove it.

“Percival, I missed you,” he says. He has the weight of every lost day in his words and Percival replies with the same tightness of extreme emotion. “I love you,” Percival murmurs, like an absolution, and Credence repeats it back to him, tears trickling down his cheeks into Percival’s hair.

They speak for hours. Percival is not a knight yet, Jacob was mistaken. Percival remains a squire, which matches what he had told Credence previously about how long it takes to earn knighthood. Yet, he has seen so much war and grief since last they met, tired and terrible things that weigh on him more heavily than the light mail and the sword at his side. He does not wish to speak of those things, and Credence does not make him, simply allows him the silence in between conversations as he listens to Percival pour out months of small details and country-spanning stories. He has learned this skill of silence from Gel, he finds.

In return he tells of his own time with Gel, the vengeance of the Good One upon Mary Lou, and his strange new work as apprentice to an alchemist. He explains that Gel is kind and intelligent, and not what people say about him at all. He mentions Newt and Theseus too, of course, though not by name, as it is rude to speak of a fey without acknowledging their presence in the room. If the two bird-fey wish to pretend Credence does not know they are listening from the rafters, he will not draw attention to it. He speaks affectionately of them anyway, more so of Newt, as Newt is more receptive to such praise and Theseus would simply scoff.

Percival is cautious but glad as Credence’s tale unfolds. Credence can tell in how he looks around furtively that he at least partially believes the stories people tell in the markets in low voices. Perhaps he thinks Credence’s hospitality is the only reason the house has not collapsed in on him like a pair of jaws slamming shut. It does not help that Theseus and Newt are lurking just out of sight. Credence does tend to see things normal people cannot see but he thinks Percival is aware of them enough for it to put him on edge. Percival seems more relaxed after Newt comes down to shyly offer Credence and his guest a cup of tea.

Credence and Percival speak until the afternoon light angles long through the windows, and Percival leaves reluctantly with a promise to return tomorrow. And return he does, every day for a week, and they speak long hours every time. Credence works extra hours in the mornings and evenings to make up his time with Gel, and falls asleep the moment he lies down, exhausted and exhilarated. 

He repeats much of what Percival says to Gel, who listens patiently. He says little, but his soft comments make it clear that he really is listening. Mostly he remains silent, lets Credence ramble, get it all out. Since the day in Jacob’s shop, his heart has not stopped beating the same truth over and over, that Percival is alive, Percival Percival Percival. 

Credence tells Percival endlessly about Gel, also. The same way Gel has been willing to listen to Credence mention Percival constantly over the months, he now tells Percival about months and months of time with Gel. He tells how of Gel’s kindness and gentleness and his dedication to his work, his quietness, how speaking to him is like speaking to a mirror, only one that speaks in return. He speaks of the hazy light in the workshop in the evening, the different flavors of smoke, the richly illustrated manuscripts, the shelves and shelves of cryptic notes. 

“He clearly means a lot to you,” Percival says, partway through Credence’s explanation of the great three alchemical elements. Credence agrees, considers, and plunges ahead with the entire truth. He explains to Percival that he and Gel are lovers as well as master and apprentice. He hurries to explain it was his own idea and Gel never would have gone so far if he had not insisted. What he wants, what he really wants, is to have Percival fully as they always intended, and keep Gel as a lover, too.

“I still want to develop my relationship with both of you,” Credence says. Percival, may the stars bless him, shows no sign of marching away in righteous rejection. “I am not sure what that would look like, and it is unusual,” Percival replies slowly. 

“At the same time, you are unusual yourself, Credence,” Percival adds, and he sounds so very fond and just a hint teasing that Credence thinks, yes. Percival tells him that in his time away during the war, he has heard of men with multiple wives and men with multiple husbands, so perhaps it is not so strange a thing after all. He is willing to think about it. Perhaps, Percival says, they might try. They might consider how such a thing is to be done and agreed upon. Credence’s happiness at this answer knows no bounds.

Credence finally introduces Percival and Gel at the end of the first week. It occurs to him that Gel has not come up into the kitchen even once, though he obviously knows when Percival is around. When he asks Gel why this is so, Gel says, “I did not wish to intrude. You have not had time with him in so long, and I know how much this means to you.”

“Thank you. That is very kind of you,” Credence says, and he means it. “I do wish you to meet him, though. Will you come up with me and meet him today?”

Gel agrees quietly, and he is either uncertain or very focused on his work, because he does not meet Credence’s gaze. It does not completely occur to Credence that something is wrong until after they are introduced. 

Gel is polite but very quiet throughout the meeting. It is peculiar for Credence to see these two men he loves so much being so formal around each other when they are so informal with him. Gel’s aloofness does not entirely surprise him. He has long suspected that some of Gel’s fierce reputation stems from a private awkwardness, not knowing what to do with any discussion that is less than extremely important, and a nearly painful dedication to speaking accurately about important topics. He is passionate, but reserved with sharing his passions.

Percival on the other hand wears his thoughts visible on his face and tends toward directness above all else. Credence can see the moment Percival decides to change the direction of their surface-level conversation. “Master Grindelwald,” Percival says, his demeanor earnest, “I beg your pardon, but I feel I must express my gratitude for your kindness towards Credence. So many things I feared for him did not come to pass because of your helping him. Please allow me to owe you a debt of honor on his behalf.”

Credence is startled, and would be more concerned if he did not know Gel so well. A debt of honor is a very serious thing for a knight, claimed only under the direst circumstances and impossible to rescind once offered. It is the sort of offer one might make to a stranger who has taken an arrow for one’s spouse. 

Gel’s expression is impenetrable. “Why would you thank me so drastically for actions taken not on your behalf?” he asks, his tone flat and unreadable. 

Percival explains, “I would have wished to be able to be here and provide help for him. I wanted to be with him every day I was absent. You know I suppose what his mother was like.” He pauses, but Gel does not reply, so he goes on. “You were able to assist him at a time of great need when I could not, and I am so grateful for that generosity. Irrelevant to me as your decision certainly was, I must thank you for that.”

Gel’s expression remains opaque. “I have no desire to have you in my debt. I helped him for his sake, not for yours.”

Percival nods emphatically. “I acknowledge that. I make no assumptions about your intentions being relevant to myself in the slightest, truly.” He leans forward on his elbows, watching Gel’s face avidly. He says fervently, “It is only that if I had been here, I would have wanted to help him, but I was not and could not have done. And you did do it. I am able to see him now like this—healthy, and happy, and safe—because of you. His happiness brings me happiness. So I thank you.”

Leave it to Percival to speak with devastating honesty. Percival gives Credence a look of such unadultered affection that Credence’s body feels too small to contain his answering love for Percival. A little of the ice in Gel’s expression melts away. “I acknowledge your gratitude,” he says quietly. “Nevertheless I will not claim any debt from you.” Percival attempts to convince him, but eventually yields to Gel’s repeated gentle refusals. Credence steers them towards easier topics for the rest of the conversation until Percival must go for the evening.

“Do you like him?”

Credence and Gel are preparing for bed when Credence finally asks. Gel pauses in untying his hair. “He seems most respectable,” he replies eventually, with something a little off in the way he says it.

“He was being very formal,” Credence offers, “but then, so were you. I hope he has not given you a bad first impression.”  
“No, not at all. I think I recognize the man you describe.” Gel removes and folds his shirt methodically, avoiding Credence’s gaze. “If not that, what is wrong, then?” Credence asks.

Gel does not answer immediately. Credence becomes concerned about the quality of that silence. He thinks to ask a different way, but Gel offers Credence a question of his own. “When you go with him, where will you live?”

“What?” Credence says. Gel’s entire tone of voice has shifted and he sounds closed off, as still and pained as when he burnt the back of his hand once and Credence had to help clean and bandage the raw red flesh. Oh no, he really has misread Gel’s quietness entirely. Credence feels as though cold water has closed over his head as he looks at Gel properly. Gel controls his breathing in a way Credence recognizes as how he himself breathes when trying not to cry, as if his breath has become a trapped animal he is struggling to keep caged inside his ribs.

“When you go with Percival,” Gel repeats calmly, “Where will you live? He does not live here in the city and he is still a squire. Will you travel?”

“I…cannot…Gel, I am not going to leave you. I live here now. You are training me.” Credence’s thoughts have scattered everywhere, like chaff before the wind, and he is handling this all wrong. He had thought Gel’s prickly response to Percival had been nothing more than protectiveness. Gel is still not looking at him. 

Gel says evenly, “You are always welcome in my house, Credence, but you must understand I cannot train you effectively if you travel most of the year.”

“Gel,” Credence pleads, “I am not planning to leave you at all. You have misunderstood me entirely.” Credence must help him understand. He is not sure how to help him understand. Gel pulls on his night shirt, and still, he looks anywhere except at Credence. He says, “You must go with him. I have no desire to bind you here. Go. You love him.”

“I do love him,” Credence says helplessly.  
“Then go with him.”  
“I already told you, you are not a replacement.” Credence knows he cannot allow Gel to convince himself that Credence lives there only as a second choice. He must be gentle but firm in explaining.

Meanwhile, Gel has increasingly moved towards losing his composure. “You must not throw away a second chance with him, Credence,” he pleads, the evenness of his voice wavering. He swallows and says, “I know you. You need to give yourself this.”

“You do not understand,” Credence says firmly. “I love you, Gel. I will not leave you.” He had been standing halfway across the room, so now he moves closer to Gel, within arm’s reach, and Gel finally glances at him, his expression desolate. “You are correct, I do not understand. Why would you do this?”

“I love both of you! Have you not been listening to me or have I not told you?” Credence cries, and reaches for Gel. Gel flinches away from him, and Credence withdraws his hand, making a conscious decision not to feel hurt. He has moved, figuratively, too fast. More softly, he says, “I must not have told you clearly enough. Gel, I am so sorry. I did not think, I thought you knew. I want both of you.”

“I do not understand,” Gel says, looking somewhere near his own toes.  
“I want to be here,” Credence tells him. “I love you. I am not going to leave you.”

“I have not bound you here,” Gel says again. “Indeed, you have not,” Credence says firmly, and the steel in his voice has Gel looking up at him and listening differently at last.

Credence explains as soothingly as he can. “Even you could not bind me here against my will. You know this. So give me my freedom and listen to me. I do not want to leave you. I want my second chance with Percival without leaving you behind. I will not un-live the time I have had with you. I want you both to walk forward with me. Do you understand?”

There is a pause, in which Gel looks distressed and conflicted, but does not look away.

“Can you trust me?” Credence asks, holding out a hand in offering. Gel reaches out and accepts his hand, slowly. “I wish to trust you,” Gel says softly. “I do not know how to acknowledge this. Can you really love two people the same way?”

“I really do love both of you,” Credence assures him. “You are different people. Can I not love each of you for being yourselves?”  
“I wish to believe you.”

“What stops you? How can I help you?” Credence draws Gel closer until they are sitting together on the bed. Credence holds both of Gel’s larger, rougher hands in his own like they are made of glass. Gel looks at their hands, and his breathing appears to relax. Gel says, “We always spoke of how I was not Percival for you. I can never be what he is for you.”

Credence says, “I do not want you to be Percival, I want you to be Gellert. Look at me.” He takes Gel’s amber spectacles out of Gel’s front vest pocket and puts them on Gel’s face. He holds Gel’s face in his hands. “An alchemist must acknowledge a fact even before he has complete understanding. Did you not tell me this?"

Gel nods and now smiles a little and appears to still be trying not to cry. “You always were a raven boy. May I trust you without understanding?”

“Please,” Credence says warmly, stroking Gel’s cheek with his thumb. “But this is not because I am a raven boy, this is who I am for myself.”  
“Of course, forgive me.”

“Please try for me,” Credence says. “Meet him properly. I want to be allowed to love both of you. I want you to enjoy each other. I want you to enjoy each other as much as I enjoy both of you.”

Gel gives a watery laugh and smiles at Credence. “That might be difficult,” he says, a touch ruefully. Credence asks, “Would you at least consider it?” Gel nods and brings his hands up over Credence’s. “I would. I will. I would do many things for you I would not do for any other man. But will your Percival understand?”

“I have asked him to trust me as well,” Credence says. Gel nods again. He closes his eyes and turns his face toward Credence’s touch, and kisses the palm of his hand. Credence leans closer, his breath brushing Gel’s cheek, and takes Gel’s spectacles back off again.

They have slow, grasping, intimate sex after this conversation. Gel is desperate for him, alternating between malleable and intense. They have scarcely gone so long without being together since their first night, and Credence remembers anew how much he wants Gel, and how easily Gel melts under his hands. Credence sleeps through their usual early breakfast time the next day and for once Gel neither wakes him nor slips away to work. They doze until midmorning, with Credence’s arms holding Gel curled up against his chest.

In order to introduce Gel and Percival more properly, Credence invites Percival to eat dinner with them. With Gel’s mind more at ease, this meeting goes more smoothly compared to the first. Percival, apparently without meaning to, coaxes Gel into a conversation about rare spices and how the war has affected trade. Credence has heard Gel talk about this before, and Percival clearly knows more about the subject. The next night dinner is a bit more stilted, but after a week of dinners conversation does seem to flow more easily. 

They eat outside Gel’s house a few times, for Percival’s sake. Credence wears a simple dress the fourth evening, too pretty and graceful for his mother to have allowed it and therefore nothing like what Percival has ever seen him wear. Percival brightens in delight to see him dressed that way. His smile is like a beacon in the dark and Credence is as drawn to him as he ever was. It seems to help Gel let down his guard that Percival so unabashedly enjoys Credence being happy.

Percival is the one to suggest they not eat out in the evening, preferring the privacy of the house over the bustle of the streets. Percival asks Credence rather than Gel, and Credence is delighted, and Gel too seems pleased when Credence repeats the request. Percival feels comfortable in crowds, but like Credence, he appreciates the house’s supernatural silence as a luxury. Gel meanwhile crowds only ever deals with crows wearing metaphorical armor, bringing all of his considerable pride and dignity to the forefront, respectful but rarely welcoming. The house is a much better choice to have his chosen men speak comfortably to each other.

A fortnight after Percival’s return, Credence takes them the next step forward. He had not expected a development so soon.

The change occurs in the evening, after one of their shared dinners. Gel and Percival become involved discussing the formal language of the royal courts and the fey, and that morphs into them recounting stories about Credence. He had been a little concerned that such a conversation might become competitive, but that is not the case at all. For whatever reason, Gel allows himself to speak to Percival about Credence the way he speaks to Credence directly. Indeed, he speaks partially looking at Credence rather than Percival, with the gentleness so integral to their every interaction. 

Percival in turn unveils some of his own self-deprecating cleverness in telling the story of how he and Credence first met. His wry explanation of how very different he found Credence to be in private versus public conversation earns him one of Gel’s rare sly quicksilver smiles. Percival returns the smile unreservedly, with his usual scrunch-nosed crinkle-eyed charm. 

Credence is a bit embarrassed by them talking about him, but their words are nothing unflattering and he is warmed by their moment of connection. They each glance at him for confirmation, of what he is not sure, and he feels the glow of a possible future like the waking from a portentous dream. This could work. They—the three of them—it could be balanced. The Magnum Opus, the core goal of alchemy, the synthesis of a philosopher’s stone, always rests on the strength of threes.

Credence decides to go for a bit of a gamble. Sometimes it works better to attempt a task with one’s own hands than to merely explain it. It might be too much, too soon. He will have to handle this carefully or he might upset one of them. The end goal of every experiment depends upon the process.

He thinks it will work with Gel, who so enjoys giving Credence what he asks for and is so physically unselfconscious. With Percival, though, he is not certain. He had been so inexperienced with Percival before, and so shy of his own desires, while Percival too had needed their secrecy, unable to court Credence properly with honor. Credence’s mother would never have given her permission for anything that would reduce her authority over him. They had both been trapped by her, Credence by poverty and invisible chains of emotion, Percival by honor and the expectations of his profession. Yes, Credence will need to treat Percival with extra care.

In a lull in the conversation, Credence draws their attention. “Gel, Percival. I have just had a thought. Will you try something for me?” Credence recognizes the assent in Gel’s raised eyebrows, and Percival says, “Of course, what is it?”

Credence stands and walks to Percival, and leans down to kiss him gently on the mouth. The kiss is over quickly and Percival up looks at him in surprise. Except for kissing farewell on the doorstep each night, they have done nothing else with Gel there to see. 

Credence places a reassuring hand on Percival’s cheek and turns back toward Gel. “You know I trust you, Gel,” Credence says. “You know how much I missed him.” Credence is gratified to see the warmth in Gel’s expression immediately. “I do,” he agrees, his tone inviting Credence to continue.

“Do you know,” Credence says, “Even when I thought of Percival, I wanted for you to be there to see us? I wanted you to be able to participate, to enjoy seeing me with him.”  
“Indeed?”

Credence walks to Gel’s chair now, and Gel tilts his head up curiously. Credence places his fingertips on the soft skin under Gel’s ear and drags his fingers forward under his jaw to a point just under his chin. It has become a familiar gesture to both of them, innocent on the surface, and on the list of actions between them that Gel has banned from the workshop because it is too distracting and could lead to a hazardous situation around breakable equipment.

Gel leans back in his chair in surprise, and allows Credence to tilt his chin up. Newt, perched on the windowsill as a nightingale, chirps indignantly and swoops away into the garden. If they were alone, is the part where Credence might begin taking off Gel’s clothes. Gel’s focus flickers across the table to Percival, watching them, and sharply back when Credence rests his thumb on Gel’s lower lip.

“You trust me?” Credence asks. “I do,” Gel says, his voice lower and darker. Credence leans in and is delighted when Gel leans up to meet him. Gel kisses with more heat than Credence had expected. He makes the barest sound when Credence curls their tongues together. 

Credence withdraws before he can become too thoroughly distracted, and steps away from Gel’s chair. Gel opens his eyes. He does not correct his lounging posture where Credence had pushed him back. “I will not neglect you,” Credence promises. “Very well,” Gel says.

Credence steps back around the table toward Percival. He is not entirely sure what Percival’s expression means, and he thinks Percival might not be sure either. He moves closer to Percival’s chair until he stands between Percival’s knees. “I have so missed you,” he says tenderly. “I dreamed of you. Did you dream of me?”

Percival looks up at him and his body sways forward, an unconscious motion, like the tide obeying the moon. “Of course,” Percival replies, his voice hushed. Credence leans closer and he knows Percival would mirror him if he had any space to be closer and still meet Credence’s gaze. 

“Were they enjoyable dreams?” he asks, with his mouth right before Percival’s. Percival looks at him and swallows, and his eyes are surprised and very dark. Credence tips his head closer ever so slowly until their lips brush. Percival’s eyes flutter shut and he inhales a shivering breath through his mouth. 

Credence kisses him. He kisses Percival the way he has been wanting to do since Percival returned. They kiss like they kissed in the alleyway, but slower. There is a moment of hesitation when Percival seems aware they have Gel as an audience, but he soon relinquishes his concern under Credence’s attention. Credence turns his head and opens his mouth and allows their tongues to dance. He steps to one side and swings a leg over the chair to sit right in Percival’s lap. Percival’s body always welcomes him, and here Credence feels safe to relax and luxuriate in the way their bodies react to each other.

Credence finally slides off Percival’s lap before Percival can start squirming under him. He makes Percival’s sword and sheath rattle against the back of the chair where Percival had slung them before dinner. Percival is flushed and rumpled and bright-eyed when Credence steps a safe distance away, and Credence expects he himself is likely much the same. 

He glances back to find a preoccupied Gel watching with his hand over his mouth and the searing focus he typically reserves for volatile solvents and Credence when he is naked. Credence smiles slyly over his shoulder and looks back to Percival. “Would you like to come upstairs with me?” he asks.

Percival swallows. “Why upstairs?”  
“My bedroom is upstairs.”

Percival licks his lips. He looks down and quickly up again, perhaps because Credence’s waistline is in his direct line of sight that way, and then uncertainly in Gel’s direction. “You too, Gel,” Credence says without looking.

“Do you want me there?” Gel asks, in a voice that brings a flush of pink to Percival’s cheeks. Interesting.  
“I always want you,” Credence says, “And yet. Percival?”

Percival cannot seem to choose a place to let his gaze settle between the two of them. “Perhaps another time,” Credence says, and offers Percival his hand. Percival remains seated, irresolute. Finally, he focuses on Credence entirely and says, “I, no. Credence, this is not right. He should come with you. With us.” 

Credence is surprised. “You really think so?”

Percival frowns several slightly different ways in rapid succession and says to himself, “I hardly know how to do this.” he sighs, regains his military-formal posture, and leans around Credence to look at Gel directly. He says: “Credence has told me he loves you.” 

Gel raises his eyebrows and counters, “He has told me he loves you.”  
“Yes, he has told me that too. He told me both of these things. I suppose he has said the same to you?”  
“He has.”

Percival’s voice takes on a touch of self deprecation. “A fine position this puts you in, I suppose, some cocky young man with no fortune appearing to whisk your sweet young man away from you?”

Gel blinks, and a smile dawns just in the corners of his eyes. “It seems to me,” he drawls, “that aside from Credence being a sweet young man, that sentence contains no truth.”

“Oh?” Percival says, the flush rising in his cheeks again.  
“Are you an arrogant man, Percival?” Gel asks challengingly. Percival looks taken aback, then sheepish. “Not when I can help it.”

“You are young, but in possession of a respectable occupation, so, neither cocky nor necessarily without fortune. Meanwhile Credence stands no danger of being whisked away anywhere except of his own free will, and I will not stand against him. If he wishes to spend his time with me, I shall be grateful for it, and if he spends his time with you I can hardly object. My authority over him ends when we walk out of my workshop.”

“Be that as it may,” Percival says, “if Credence and you both agree, I…do not object.” 

“Object to what, precisely?” Gel says, smirking, one of his sharply mischievous smiles, and Percival turns red as a tomato and grins crookedly. “I believe your alchemist is teasing me, Credence,” Percival says, getting to his feet and accepting Credence’s outstretched hand.

They take candles with them up to Credence’s room, for though the night is not late, the shadows have grown deep and long. Gel’s bed is larger and better suited for multiple occupants, but Credence chooses his own for fairness’s sake. Gel has never slept here with Credence, or done anything else to him here either. Credence sits them down on the edge of the bed, side by side, and faces them. “This stops when you say,” he tells them. “Either of you.” They nod in agreement. Credence kicks off his shoes and starts to remove his clothes.

Percival looks at Credence like he is a holy icon. Gel keeps still, dark-eyed and intent. Revealing his skin to them feels like bestowing a blessing. He feels as powerful as the first time he undressed before Gel. Whatever else happens tonight, for this moment he has both of them: in this moment they each belong to him completely. He has their attention and affection and desire, and he holds them immobile with it.

Percival makes a wordless sound when Credence removes his underwear. He has touched Credence before a number of times, but never seen him fully naked. Percival’s attention feels wonderful. He looks as though he would be willing to go immediately to his knees if Credence asked him. Credence knows for a fact Gel would, having done just that not very long ago. His interest, already stirred by their attention, becomes more insistent, bringing him to full hardness at the thought of both Gel and Percival together on their knees. 

Credence walks around to the other side of the bed and sits delicately. “I want you to undress each other,” he tells them. “Gel should start, I think. You need not make any more of it than that. Do it patiently, like you would for me if I were uncertain.”

“I had not expected to participate,” Gel says, though he does not sound displeased by the prospect. Credence asks, “Would you rather not? If either disagrees, please do say so. But you do trust me.” Yes, they acknowledge, they do trust him. “And you know I never want to hurt you. Either of you.” He looks at them each in turn for a nod of confirmation. Percival’s eyes widen when Gel slips off the bed and crouches to remove both of their shoes. Gel’s teasing smile has receded but Percival apparently remembers it, because he reddens and grins when Gel sits again and looks him in the eye.

Percival is shier than Gel has ever been and more jumpy, startling easily at light touches. He can barely keep his eyes off Credence, either, which only emphasizes his startled responses. He has to help Gel remove his chainmail outer shirt and arm braces, but after that he seems all skin and nerves. Gel at first relies on the bare minimum of touch to remove his outer layers, but the second time Percival shrugs off a shiver, Gel pauses and considers him. 

Gel deliberately places his hand on the curve of Percival’s shoulder, allowing him a moment to adjust before drawing the shirt off of him. He uses this kind of touch to ground them. Credence can see it helps in how Percival’s skin twitches and relaxes like a horse being soothed. As Gel takes off Percival’s belt, he keeps at least one steady hand on Percival’s sides, and then his hips. 

Percival inhales slowly and Gel looks up. Credence smiles to see the spark of curiosity in Gel’s gaze. Percival hasn’t entirely relaxed yet, but his arousal is beginning to show, and Credence remembers he likes being held by the hips and waist. When they had first been together Credence had not had quite the confidence to forcefully pin Percival against a wall but he did back him up and hold him close that way, and Percival had liked it. More recently, sometimes Credence grabs Gel by the hips and flips him over when they make love. Percival might like that. Not today, but in future certainly. 

Today Gel looks unhurriedly interested and Percival looks uncertain how he wants to respond, how intimate he is willing to allow this to become. Gel places his hands on Percival’s sides over his ribs and holds him like that, watching curiously as Percival’s breathing deepens. Credence knows intimately the callouses and work-worn strength of Gel’s broad hands and he shivers appreciatively in Percival’s stead. 

“All well, squire?” Gel pitches his voice low, probably on purpose.  
“Heaven’s sake, call me Percival,” Percival says, his face flaming. Gel looks entertained.

Credence ends up helping keep Percival balanced, scooting across the bed to rest his hands reassuringly on Percival’s shoulders. Percival puts a hand back to touch Credence’s hip. His muscular back bears more scars than Credence remembers. He resolves to be careful about the scars and not draw attention to them until he knows what memories they hold.

When Percival is down to his linen britches and well on his way to fully hard, Credence tells them to switch. Gel submits to Percival’s hands like a king, so comfortable is he in his own skin. Gel meets Credence’s eyes often, but he does not seem to need touch for reassurance. Percival removes Gel’s heavy work shirt as though removing silk from a maiden. Gel chuckles at him. 

Credence was entirely correct in thinking they would be fun to watch. He pets Percival’s shoulders while watching the now familiar revelation of Gel’s body. Gel is older and bears more weight around the middle than Percival, and his fair complexion looks dramatic as ever, while Percival is swarthy with sun. They are striking as a mated set, the morning and high noon. Credence himself can be the night after sunset, both fair and dark, balancing them.

When Gel has only his underclothes left, Percival hesitates with his hands over Gel’s thighs. Credence kisses Percival’s ear to get his attention. Percival shudders, no doubt because this position aligns Credence’s entire body with Percival’s back, with scarcely a barrier between them. “Percival,” Credence breathes, “I am going to make love to him, and then to you, and I want you to watch each other. Will you allow that?”

Percival opens his hesitantly mouth, flushes darkly, and shuts it again. He nods, wide-eyed. “Let me know if you change your mind,” Credence says, and kisses the top of his head. Gel clambers farther up the bed as Credence directs him to sit with his back to the headboard. He watches Credence climb up between his knees with a thoughtful expression. 

“So you want to be watched,” Gel says, leaning on his hands so Credence can pull off his underclothes and exposing his partially erect cock. Credence hums in agreement. He runs both hands from Gel’s throat to the vee of his hips. Credence pinches Gel’s nipples and is satisfied to see Gel’s cock twitch and fill, the foreskin pulling back fully from the head. Gel closes his eyes and lets Credence pull him down flat on his back, with Credence on top of his knees.

It takes longer than usual to open him up, considering how recently they have laid together. Credence rewards him with murmured praises and belly kisses. The bed is too small for much space between any of them, so Percival is a warm and watchful presence at Credence’s elbow. Credence sucks a bead of precome off Gel, two oil-slicked fingers pressed deep, and Percival groans as though it were a touch to his own body.

Credence fits himself into Gel with care. The tight slide stings tantalizingly after so much time directing the other two without touching himself. He moves out and in slowly at first, wary of hurting Gel due to any remaining tenseness. When Gel finally relaxes completely, he shudders beneath Credence as though he has never been filled until that moment, as though he is satisfying a hunger of a thousand years. He bares his throat and holds Credence to him, crossing his ankles behind Credence, keeping him buried deep. 

“You are so good, Gel, so good to me,” Credence tells him. Percival makes a helplessly aroused sound and leans his forehead on Credence’s shoulder. “Mm, Percival. Are you going to touch me?” Credence asks. 

Percival responds, “I do not even know. This is so much. The two of you…” He touches Credence at the arch of his back, a low warm hand, feeling the flex of his muscles while he moves inside Gel. The little bottle of oil has rolled somewhere on the bed by their feet. Credence hears Percival opening the stopper and breathes, “Yes, Percival, please.”

Gel moans softly. Credence wraps a hand around Gel’s cock and times his strokes offset from the roll of their hips. Percival’s hand leaves Credence’s back and returns, fingers dripping with oil. He rests his hand on the curve of Credence’s behind, barely touching Credence’s entrance, so Credence’s thrusts into Gel cause Percival’s fingertip to rub his skin. Credence gasps at a bloom of heat; he had fantasized about Percival being inside him at the same time. “Deeper, oh, that’s good,” he says.

Gel makes a broken off noise at his voice and writhes, fingernails biting into Credence’s hips. Credence stills, heading off climax like narrowly avoiding an ocean breaker. He moves his hand faster on Gel’s cock, circling his thumb in a wet spiral around the tip.

Gel is beautiful when he comes. He arcs up off the bed, exquisitely vulnerable. Credence pulls out of Gel and squeezes the base of his cock to keep from finishing. “Yes, show me,” Credence murmurs, stroking him through his aftershocks. “Thank you for being here with me, Gel. Dear Gel.”

“How was that now, Percival?” Credence asks, almost teasing if he were not so breathless.  
“Oh, _God._ ”  
“I want your touch inside me, Percival. I can finally have you now.”

Percival at last dares to press himself as close to Credence as he can get without climbing over and between Gel’s legs. His cock is damp and insistent against Credence’s back. Credence takes over fingering himself, working fast and rough, leaning back and sideways into Percival’s chest. Percival breathes raggedly and rubs against Credence’s hip and pets every part of Credence he can reach with trembling hands. 

Gel and Credence rearrange so Credence can lean against Percival more easily, with less risk of kneeling heavily on top of Gel’s shins. Pliant and drowsy as usual, Gel still places the toes of one foot against Credence’s calf, always desiring to be within reach of him after finishing. Percival closes his mouth on a strangled sound when Credence spreads a fresh handful of oil on Percival’s cock. “So impressive, my Percival,” Credence says, turning on his knees so they are evenly aligned back to front. “I feel like I might be done at any moment,” Percival says behind him. 

Credence lines up in answer, and sits back slowly on Percival’s cock, gasping at the stretch. Percival steadies him with his hands on his hips and both of them groan wordlessly. The roughness of his palms is entirely different from Gel’s, and Credence’s heart sings, because he knows Percival and remembers his hands. Even if he were deaf and blind, he would recognize Percival’s hands. Credence begins to rock back slowly, but one of Percival’s hands finds his cock and balls and he becomes immediately untethered, bucking helplessly up and back.

Percival is kissing his shoulders, sucking hard enough to leave marks, his thrusts into Credence quivering at the edge of ecstasy. They are alive in this moment, all three of them, Gel curling down to put his hand on Credence’s knee. “You need this, Credence,” Gel encourages softly. “I want you to have him. You have all the time in the world, love.” Credence gasps, and it might be a sob of joy. His body tightens and Percival gasps with him, and they are gone, swept clean of thought and memory and everything but passion and feeling.

Percival stays sitting up on the bed on his knees, dazed, until Credence fetches washcloths to clean all of them. It appears to register with Percival that he is being allowed to stay, not just to trespass but to remain, and he goes lax on the bed opposite Gel. Credence must place his hands and knees with care to climb over and between them on the narrow bed. He puts Gel at his back, a sturdy presence, and Percival he tucks under his chin, an equally solid weight.

At first it seems like his two men might avoid touching each other’s arms crossed over Credence’s body, but by mutual silent agreement, they allow their arms and legs and hands to lie relaxed together. The sheets smell faintly of sweat, oil, and sex. Credence burrows his face into Percival’s disheveled hair. This evening has been thoroughly worth the looks the Scamanders will undoubtedly give his laundry.

Credence almost thinks they will fall asleep this way, until Gel rumbles a laugh behind him. “Credence,” he pronounces, “I am going to fall off this bed onto the floor.” Credence huffs and tries to wiggle around to give Gel enough space to sit up, which is only somewhat successful.

“Are you going to stay for the night, Percival?” Credence asks. Percival mumbles incoherently and sits up, nearly sliding off the bed. “Am I allowed to stay?” Percival asks blearily, combing his fingers through his mussed hair. “Of course,” Gel says, rolling out of bed and picking up his shirt, which he does not bother to put on. Percival puts on his linen britches and lays his mail and bracers across the foot of Credence’s bed. 

“Gel’s bed has more space,” Credence explains, and leads the way across the hall, with his men trailing behind him. Percival looks curiously about the shadowy study as they pass through to the bedroom, where his gaze is immediately caught by the massive telescope at the window. The curtains have not been drawn, and the canon-sized contraption gleams mysteriously.

“Do you study the heavens?” Percival asks, looking from the telescope to the shelf of books and odd metal devices, and the small table by the telescope with its waiting stack of papers. Credence shakes his head and pulls the covers back, and gestures Percival to sit beside him. Gel leaves his shirt laid over a stool and takes a moment to look at the telescope as well. “I do not,” Gel says, climbing into the bed so Credence is sitting between them. “The tools of astronomy in this house have not been used in many years.”

“I always wondered about studying astronomy, but we could never have afforded it,” Percival yawns, allowing Credence to steer him until he lays his head in Credence’s lap. Credence touches Gel’s shoulder. Astronomy, he knows, had been an interest of Albus’s. Gel raises his eyebrows questioningly, and perhaps realizes the direction of Credence’s thoughts, because he gives him a reassuring half smile. He stretches out so his shoulders touch Credence’s thigh. “Perhaps you will have the chance to learn, Percival,” he says, and Percival, eyes closed, hums in agreement.

Credence remains seated with Percival’s head in his lap, and uses one hand to comb through each man’s hair. “I would like to catch up on our progress with the mercury tomorrow, Gel,” Credence says. “I have been wondering about the thrice-great terminology not being about the element of mercury. Did I ever finish telling you?”

Gel pulls the covers farther up over himself and relaxes again under Credence’s touch. He says, “You might have mentioned it earlier in the week. We have both been distracted of late.” 

“I thought you were working on the sorcerer’s stone,” Percival mumbles against Credence’s leg. Credence smooths out a stray strand of Percival’s hair. “We are,” Credence says; “The thrice-great is part of the work, one of the recipes. Gel, I think the thrice-great might not be about elements, but rather about people.”

Gel takes a moment to respond. “Trios of people have worked the instructions before,” he says distantly. Credence suspects he is exerting some effort not to fall asleep. Credence says, “I had wondered whether the threefold relationship needed to be more than professional collaboration. Do you know whether the previous trios particularly liked each other?” Gel makes a noncommittal noise and Percival makes a similar sound of protest. “Can we talk not now?” Percival murmurs. Credence smiles in amusement, because Percival and Gel look remarkably alike in their sex-rumpled drowsiness.

Credence nudges Percival off his lap and finally stretches out on his side between them. Gel turns around and nuzzles up to his shoulder, tangling all three of their feet together. Credence holds Percival loosely to his chest. Credence lets himself go lax with contentment, a warm familiar presence in front and behind him. He says quietly, “I may show Percival the workshop in the morning if you do not object. Involving him in the process might potentially be useful in the future.”

“Mmm me?” Percival yawns, shifting in Credence’s arms. Gel huffs a laugh near Credence’s neck. He murmurs slyly, “We already have rules against sex in the workshop, Credence.”

“What?” Percival says blearily.  
“That is not what I meant and you know it.”  
“I missed something,” Percival says. Credence settles himself and Percival does not try too hard to sit up and look at him.  
“Never you mind,” Credence says, “Gel is having a laugh at me, that is all.”  
“I would not dream of it,” Gel murmurs, an obvious smile curling his words. 

Purple and blue twilight has fallen and Credence is nearly asleep when Percival sighs and brushes his lips over the center of Credence’s chest. “Credence,” he whispers, and Credence kisses his forehead to acknowledge he heard. “Are you happy?” Percival asks. 

Credence thinks of the strange mixtures in the basement, of gloves and goggles and burner and flame. He thinks of the unicorns and the healing potions their stray hairs can make, and of Gel being willing to negotiate an inordinately low price for those truly in need. He thinks of all the stolen moments in the alleyways with Percival, and the joy and luxury of Percival’s clothing draped on his bed. Percival, his first love, is alive, and his second love also lives, Gel equally warm and immediate behind him. “Yes,” he finally replies, smiling into Percival’s hair. “Tonight I am truly happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after c:  
> Lol consistent chapter lengths? Never heard of it. Finally got around to finishing, mostly because of encouragement from my lovely beta reader Apocynaceae. Thanks babe. <3 Hope you all enjoyed the ending!
> 
> Come ask me what weird stuff I learned about alchemy writing this fic or yell at me about fandom on tumblr @tiny-trashcan.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me write faster ;D Please tell me what you liked if you leave kudos! If you're one of the three and a half people I expect to be interested in this kind of fic, come yell about it with me on tumblr @tiny-trashcan.


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